


Vici

by Lady_Spindle



Category: League of Legends
Genre: Angst, Corruption, Corruption in the League of Legends, Crime Fighting, Cults, Deception, Demacia, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fantasy, Gen, I don't know how to tag this I wrote it years ago, Intrigue, Journal of Justice, Judgement, Kalamanda, Marcus Du Couteau's disappearance, Noxus, Political Alliances, Redemption, Rise to Power, Shadow Isle Cameos, Slow Burn, Swain and Jarvan IV rivalry, Swain and Vessaria were a thing, Swain's Rise to power in Noxus, The Black Rose - Freeform, Violence, Zaun, a dense political intigue fic with lots of deception and corruption with a dash of romance, assassinations
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-06-30 21:21:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 55,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15759918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Spindle/pseuds/Lady_Spindle
Summary: “Strength was once the very backbone of Noxus,” General Darius observed, “yet we have become plagued by weakness.  In Jericho Swain I see a man with the Power to cull the weak from Noxus.”In the tumultuous aftermath of the Kalamanda mines and Boram Darkwill’s death, Noxus is left in tatters.  But through all the turmoil, one man has risen above the rest: Jericho Swain has returned to restore Noxus to glory.  The master tactician has waited for years for his plan to be realized, and now, the time has come…





	1. Porcelain

**Author's Note:**

> ***I am cross-uploading this from Fanfiction.net where I have an account of the same name. The LOL lore might be dead but I just wanted to make sure it's clear that I am the original creator of this fic.***
> 
> Anyways, 4 years later and this is still the longest (probably best quality) piece of literature I've ever written. Now it's on AO3. Without my high schooler notes.
> 
> Also, not beta'd...please excuse the numerous errors.

Chapter 1

Porcelain

                The sallow faced sun had begun to set, gradually choked out by the darkness of night.  The last lights of the sun formed a halo about the harsh edged skyline of the city state Noxus; a waning sigil extinguished by the cruel fist of night.

But for the underworld of Noxus, darkness always pervaded, not in the sense of night and day, but through the cumulative poverty, starvation and unchecked violence.  The people in this part of Noxus scuttled in the shadows and alleyways like rats, with sunken faces and lackluster eyes. 

                Jericho Swain was no stranger to this side of the city he held the position of general over.  He strode through the labyrinth of crudely strung shacks with an air of confidence.  He knew that not even the most desperate of thugs would dare challenge such a high ranking general as he.  The squalor these destitute citizens lived in was mortifying by any standards.  Swain knew this; he also knew that this was a result of the stringent military state.  Those who weren’t able to serve as an excellent soldier were left with next to nothing.  Swain himself was an anomaly, and he had the fleeting thought every now and again about what might have become of him, a cripple, had it not been for his brilliantly tactical mind.  Those thought always evaporated quickly as they came, but amidst the grime and rampant filth, it was difficult not to glimpse shadows of what _could_ have been. 

                Swain slid out of the alleyway and approached a decrepit building.  With his cane, he swept away clumps of refuse from the doorstep and, tapping it twice, he revealed a secluded passage way tucked in the side of the sagging structure.  Without preamble, the tactician slipped into the pitch black niche.  In the silence that followed, Beatrice, Swain’s loyal bird ruffled her feathers as the passage spiraled downward.  Now they were truly in the underworld:  the cesspool of cults, covens, and cutthroats who thrived in the honeycomb maze beneath the very structure of Noxus.  Lowlifes hung around every bend; that much was certain, but Swain was well accustomed to encountering them, though Beatrice was still uneasy. 

                “We’re almost there, girl,” Swain soothed to the miniature demon bird, gruffly patting her head. 

                They reached another doorway hewn into the stone of the labyrinth wall.  Leaning heavily on his cane, Swain knocked on the door three times then two, in a syncopated pattern.  A peephole scraped open and two beady eyes peered out demanding, “Who dares disturb the-” His eyes suddenly gaped in recognition, “g-general Swain! I-oh-I’m terribly sorry!” the man hastily slid open the rest of the door and Swain limped inside the dimly lit room. 

                “My apologies sir, I had no idea you were coming!”    
                Swain paid no heed to the doorman and walked confidently through the sparsely furnished room to the only other door directly across the way. 

                “Oh! Sir, general, sir, wait- she might not be ready-”

                Still ignoring the doorman, Swain reached for the handle, but before his gnarled hand could grasp the knob, the door swung inward and revealed the presence of a breathtakingly elegant woman smirking in the doorframe.  She wore exquisite purple robes, accented with jewels and a magnificent headdress.  A faint smile seemed ever etched into her pale, painted features. 

                “LeBlanc.”  Swain greeted with a shallow bow.

                “Jericho Swain.”  The deceiver nodded formally.  “I’ve been expecting you.  Do come in.  And Gervais,” LeBlanc spared a glance at the mildly flabbergasted doorman, “You’re services are no longer needed this evening.” 

                Gervais nodded and eased himself into the armchair, one of three furniture fixings of the antechamber. 

                The door swung shut behind LeBlanc and Swain, and the tactician breathed in the heady scent of incense, softly smoldering in the corner.  The room was host to lavish furnishings: plush Ionian carpets matted the floor, intricate furniture dotted the space tastefully and elegant patterns adorned the myriad of other artifacts about the chamber. Over the years, the seemingly ageless LeBlanc had acquired an exquisite taste, and every inch of the chamber reflected those years of careful collecting. 

                Swain was already familiar with most of the décor, so he shuffled over to the furniture piece that interested him most:  the ornate chair set at a small table.  Precious porcelain dishes were set daintily on the lace table cloth; teacups, saucers, crème, sugar and even a steaming plate of scones.  Swain settled stiffly into one of the chairs, propping his cane against the edge of the table while Beatrice lighted down on the back of another chair.  She shut four of her six eyes contentedly and proceeded to preen herself.  LeBlanc, who had disappeared for a moment, returned with a steaming kettle of tea.  She set it in the center of the table and slipped gracefully in the third chair, opposite Swain.  The deceiver straightened her cloak and headdress with a perfectly manicured hand before pouring tea for herself and for the tactician. 

                “How was your trip over here?”  She asked, making small talk as she poured the steaming beverage. 

                Swain grunted, “Filthy, as usual.”  He grasped the delicate teacup- it looked somewhat out of place in his calloused grip - and pulled down his facemask before taking a swig of the scalding tea.  He shuddered as it went down.  “Ahh, impeccable taste as always. Ionian black tea.”    
                LeBlanc smiled vaguely and sipped her own tea.  “You’d think that after all these years, I’d at least know your favorite tea,” she teased. 

                Swain chortled, “Indeed, yet I still have not an inkling of _your_ tea preferences, other than the fact you patiently endure my choice tea at every visit.” 

                “Jericho,” the deceiver laughed, “you know far too much about me already.  One must keep _some_ things a secret!”  She settled back into her chair, still smirking, “Did you make sure to close the door tight behind you?  It let’s in a terrible draft if not closed all the way.” 

                “Of course,” Swain replied offhandedly, “I’m certain it clicked shut, locking automatically, I presume?” 

                LeBlanc’s eyes glittered, “then we shan’t be disturbed.”  She took another sip and continued, “You surprised me, Swain, when you called such a sudden meeting.   Are the state of affairs really so dreadful?” 

                “No worse than usual.”  Swain grunted.

                “Cho’gath still kept in check?”  Swain nodded, “And what about Shaco?” 

                “The usual mayhem.  I’ve considered sending Darius or Draven to dispatch that nuisance.” 

                “Hah! And lose your right hand man and best executioner?  What a waste.” 

                “Indeed.” 

                “I can tell you aren’t here for idle gossip.”  LeBlanc observed shrewdly, fingering her teacup lazily. 

                “Since when have I ever come over solely for tea and gossip?”  The general snorted. 

                “Ah, if only you were that sort of man Swain, if only!”  LeBlanc laughed sardonically.  “In all seriousness though, the fracas over the Kalamanda mines must be keeping you on your toes, especially considering you only recently returned from your ‘vacation’.” 

                “That blasted mine has been nothing but a headache.”  Swain grumbled, downing more tea. 

                “Or, perhaps it’s those blasted _Demacians_ who are the real headache?”  The deceiver lilted. 

                “Those sniveling brats know not when to keep their necks out of that which doesn’t concern them.”  Swain growled. 

                “And every interference is more tension and more needlessly shed Noxian blood.”  Leblanc finished gravely, “and what good is a dying soldier?  Bleeding out his worth until he is spent.  One cannot survive in such an abysmal state.”  She sent a pointed looked at Swain. 

                He nodded somberly, “Yet in many ways the fallen warrior is still better off than the field flowers under his near-lifeless form.” 

                LeBlanc’s golden eyes glinted, “Have you grown senile in your absence?  You know as well as I that even the most wilted flower – wilted _rose_ – will bloom again in the spring, when the warrior is long dead.” 

                “So I suppose one must wait until ‘springtime’.”  Swain purposely baited. 

                “If ‘spring’ would come!  The rose will not bloom again unto the fields are no longer soaked in blood and the government is no wrought of the tyranny of a _military state!_ ”  LeBlanc furiously gripped her teacup with more force than necessary, causing a crack to lace up the site.  It betrayed the immense power hidden within her slim form. 

                “I do sympathize with your plight.”  Swain said evenly, in stark contrast to the violent emotions plaguing LeBlanc.  “But you must know, in my position, what can I do but watch the ‘warrior’ die?” 

                “End him.”  LeBlanc snarled; she locked onto the tactician’s blood red eyes fearlessly. 

                “It isn’t that simple.”  Swain sighed wearily.  For a moment, he looked truly old. 

                LeBlanc’s expression softened, “But, perhaps the task is simpler now that General du Couteau is out of the picture.”  A small smirk worked its way onto her pale features. 

                “Indeed so.”  Swain allowed something like a smile to cross his stern features. 

                “It’s a shame that the High Command wastes your talents as a mere general.  You were always suited for greater.”  LeBlanc sighed airily. 

                “Have no fear M’lady LeBlanc, that seat of power you speak of?  Attaining it is not a matter of if but _when_.”  Swain drunk down the rest of his tea and rose stiffly, “I do believe I should be returning home; it’s quite late.”  LeBlanc rose too, all the violent emotion vanished and her former perfect porcelain visage returned. 

Beatrice lighted back onto Swain’s shoulder plate as the general spoke again, “I was pleased- and relieved- when you accepted my proposition to have tea today.  I thought you would never forgive me for giving myself to the military high command.” 

                “The mystic chains that bind us are deeper than any ephemeral quarrel; yet know this: I have not forgiven you.”  LeBlanc said bluntly, “Not for selling yourself over to the cause I thought you had allied against. But…perhaps if you were to do some good in your position, I may come to reconcile with you.”

                “M’lady LeBlanc, we’ve all had to make sacrifices.  As for me, I’ve sold my soul far more times than the common man should…and you have made similar pacts.  Greatness was never achieved nor constituted by the common.  But you already know that, Matron of the Black Rose.”  Swain finished softly. 

                “How eloquent, Jericho, I’m simply charmed.”  LeBlanc’s voice lilted with sarcasm.

                “But of course.”  Swain’s red eyes gleamed in amusement.  “Thank you, Evaine,” He took one of her graceful hands in his and pressed a rough, dry kiss to her knuckles, “for the tea; it was excellent.”  He picked up his cane and shuffled out of LeBlanc’s chamber, leaving the deceiver grinning pertly in his wake. 

                  Gervais was sprawled sleeping in the armchair of the antechamber, but for once Swain opted not to harass the hapless doorman and slipped as silently out of the labyrinth as he had entered. 

                Outside, the night air was stagnant and little moonlight filtered through brooding clouds.  All was silent save for the clacking of the general’s cane against the cobblestones and the thudding of his uneven footsteps.  Swain was painfully aware that his obviously limping gait would be a magnet for trouble.

                He was right, for around the next bend, a shadow waited.  as the tactician approached the shadow tensed and drew a blade, ready to lash out at Swain who was just…about…there-

                Suddenly, Beatrice sensed the shadow’s presence and squawked nervously.  Swain halted to soothe his bird; all his senses were on edge, and he glanced around warily.

                The assailant cursed vehemently and stepped off into deeper shadows.  The assassination would have to wait until a different time. The assailant knew he would only have a chance at killing the general if he had the element of surprise, and that cursèd bird had ruined his plans.  He pulled a hawk-like hood tightly over his head, and scampered away angrily. 

                Swain finally reached his estate and breathed a sigh of relief.  Beatrice had not settled down until his gate and doors were locked and barred, and he wondered what could have vexed his favorite bird so.  Little did he know that he owed the demon bird his life, for the assailant had been none other than the blade’s shadow, Talon.


	2. Contemplations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Swain has many thoughts.

Chapter 2

Contemplations

Into the late hours of the night, Swain sat at the cluttered desk in his study.  He felt the exhaustion of a long day’s work creeping into his bones, but sleep would not find him.  The tactician had been pondering Matron LeBlanc’s words for some time now.  Since his return to Noxus after forced retirement Swain was beginning to understand the urgency of LeBlanc’s subtle prompting.

                Years ago, before Boram Darkwill had taken power, it was common knowledge that the Black Rose was the true force that drove the Noxian aristocracy, but under their ruthless warlord’s command, the cult had sunk into desolation.  Now, only a few vestiges remained. 

The remaining Black Rose members lay in hiding, scattered about Noxus’ underworld and unable to act without the fear of elimination.  Many had thought the Black Rose was completely vanquished and it’s had not been until LeBlanc herself had entered the League of Legends that remembrance of the long lost cult was resurfaced.

                But the Black Rose was the least of Swain’s problems; he had known Evaine for long enough – had been a part of the Black Rose as well – to know she would not double cross him.  Or so he counted as much from the ruthless woman know as “the deceiver”.  Though in the past, he had been he who had done the betraying.  The general absently rubbed the bare space where the heavy onyx ring, symbolic of the Black Rose, had once rested. 

                Swain stood stiffly, taking up his cane, and began to pace to and fro before his desk, “These mines have become troublesome, have they not, right Beatrice?”  Swain posed wearily. 

                The bird squawked in agreement from her wrought iron perch in the corner of the study. 

                “More trouble than they are worth, eh?”  Swain ceased pacing, “but, of course it’s only natural with potential Nexuses to be found, Kalamanda inevitably is a magnet for political clashes between the swarming city states – all eager to stake their claim and greedily devour riches.  Any fool should know that with Noxian and Demacian troops in such close proximity, it will only a matter of time before the two clash. Not even the iron fist of the League could survive – least of all cull – the force of irascible hatred between the city states.” 

                Beatrice cawed knowingly. 

                Swain leaned up against a book case and reached a frail arm up to adjust the volume of his hex-tech record player, which thrummed with the flurrying chords of Sona’s famed “Aria of Perseverance”.

                “I fear that in the near future, peace will be impossible.  But I suppose one must deal with the tribulations of his own city-state.”

Swain took a seat and rested his chin in his hands pensively.   “Following the general’s disappearance, a new face emerged from the shadows of the du Couteau household: Talon. That man has always been an enigma.  The feared street fighter held no allegiances – until the day he came face to face with General du Couteau, who had been sent to dispatch him.  Talon finally met his match, and du Couteau spared him in a rare show of mercy.   The lad was forever dedicated to the general, and thus became his protégé.  The general’s disappearance shook Talon.  I had caught glimpses of him, pacing about while Katarina organized search parties in the military headquarters all last week following du Couteau's disappearance.  With each passing day gaining no leads, Talon appeared increasingly distraught… and obsessed.  Natural, I suppose, to feel for a lost mentor. 

Katarina and Talon’s seeming alliance is a bit perturbing… and sudden.  I had not gotten the indication du Couteau’s protégé was in any way connected to the rest of the general’s household.  Though, Talon may see Katarina as one last link to her father, which brings one to wonder what would happen if the General’s trail runs out – so too will Talon’s alliance?”  Swain looked over at Beatrice, who had more or less fallen asleep amidst her master’s musings. 

“Hmn, I bore even you Beatrice.  I only ponder the state of the du Couteau household for they are major advocates of the Noxian military state, and therefore a potential threat to my plans, right girl?”  He ruffled the bird’s feathers and Beatrice cawed muzzily in agreement, “Which brings me back to the master plan, doesn’t it?”  The tactician sighed, “LeBlanc was right, this military state – this dying soldier – must be ended, and in its wake the Black Rose shall rise again.  With the cult holding a stable government, Noxus could truly be a formidable foe – a deadly political and militaristic force.  For true strength lies in the power of knowledge – wars of words are just as potent as those of steel and blood.

                Du Couteau’s vacant seat is a fortuitous opportunity indeed.  Another dispatched worm is another step towards the top.  The time has come for carrion crows to tear away at the decaying high command.”  Swain finished with a deep breath, full of anticipation.  “I’m getting rather poetic in my age, eh Beatrice?” 

                The bird in question fluffed out her feathers and turned her back to Swain, showing her disdain and attempting to rest peacefully.  The general chuckled vaguely and spread out a stack of papers on his desk.  On top was an envelope from the high command.  The General unfolded the invitation from within: it formally invited Swain to a clandestine ceremony in which his promotion would be made official.  Though du Couteau’s fate was still shrouded in mystery, political pressures coerced High General Boram Darkwill into appointing a man to fill his post.  The letter also detailed a celebratory party honoring his promotion, which would occur after the ceremony tomorrow.  It denoted along with times, dates, and proper dress attire that he could bring one guest of choice.  Swain chortled, Evaine was his obvious choice, but he knew she would be indescribably cross with him for making her go to a military related event.  Though, in a way, the celebration was a much hers as his.  Swain set the invite aside and panned through the rest of the papers with little interest, until his keen eyes caught a news paper headline: _“Jarvan IV Inspects Kalamanda Mines”_. 

                “So the prince is _personally_ checking the mines.”  Swain muttered.  A brief image flashed through his mind: his own ravenous form shredding the arrogant “exemplar” in the League’s Judgment chamber.  It had been pitifully simple to sabotage – and successful, if not for Vessaria Kolminye’s interference.  Swain looked again at the paper, envisioning a bit more macabre headline for the Demacians. 

                “This could be quite the opportunity.”  He whispered viciously, the mere thought of sinking vengeful talons into the arrogant fool once more made Swain clench his fists and shake in anticipation. 

                “Perhaps these mines are not such a hassle; perhaps they are a chance to kill two nemeses with one _bird_.” 


	3. Revelry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gotta love those Journal of Justice tabloid reporters...

Chapter 3

Revelry

                Dawn in Noxus was not a celebrated affair.  The sun peeked out every morning nervously, apprehensively, as if it were unsure it wise to show such a brilliant smile in the face of its dour, scowling recipient.  There were no glorious structures to set sunlight dancing off luminescent domes and pearly armatures as in Demacia.  Light reflected off brooding towers, making them seem _more_ menacing if anything.  For the Noxian people, sunrise slipped by unnoticed; drudge workers and military factions were awake long before the sun awoke the day, and besides, few held the sentiment to care. 

                Swain perhaps was one of the few _to_ hold something like sentiment for the sunrise; he found it helped him sort out his thoughts as he watched the sky spangle with colors above his aviary.  The birds he kept there would stir as instinct told them to wake.

                On this day however, Jericho Swain slept through the sunrise and deep into mid-morning before rousing.  As he had drifted off to sleep the previous day, rosy fingers of light were already caressing the horizon.  Swain rose groggily and proceeded about his morning routine: feeding the birds, getting a bite to eat and putting on a fresh robe.  Methodically working his way through, soon enough the tactician found himself back in his study to compose a letter for LeBlanc.  He stared at a blank piece of parchment for a minute, pen in hand, unsure of how to start.  Addressing her as “LeBlanc” seemed too formal, too unfamiliar, but to address her as “Evaine”…  In recent years past, Swain had felt unsure if it were…within his bounds to address her as Evaine.  After she assumed the title of LeBlanc and after he had left the Black Rose, her first name somehow seemed inappropriate, as if he were undeserving to address her so intimately. 

Swain Settled for what he deemed sufficiently neutral:

_Matron Evaine,_

_I would be delighted if you would accompany me this evening at the reception party for my promotion.  Send a reply back to my estate and I truly hope to accompany you there._

_~Jericho Swain_

The general then strapped his completed letter to the leg of a reddish, long necked demon-bird and sent it on its way to deliver the note.  When the bird was out of sight, Swain returned indoors and began to prepare for his promotion ceremony, now only a few hours away. 

Swain dressed in his normal military garb, Beatrice taking her usual perch on his shoulder.  The tactician had decided to save fancier robes for a bit more important promotion he felt sure to come. 

As he was pulling up his facemask, someone began knocking at the door.  Swain clacked slowly to the door, not in the mood for visitors but not rude enough to completely ignore the persistent guest.  He slid open the peephole and found himself face to face with LeBlanc’s glittering gold eyes.  Swain hastily opened the door for her and commented, “You could just let yourself in.” 

LeBlanc retorted, “yes, but I prefer _not_ to undermine the trust of those near to me.” 

Swain bit back a reply and let the deceiver stalk past. 

Scathing, she always came back with a cutting rebuke, Swain sighed to himself, that woman would never let him forget any wronging of her.  Her moods changed violently, like a sandstorm, lashing with stinging derision, and how could Swain detect if they shifted when her true feelings were buried beneath so much deceit.

LeBlanc marched through Swain’s house to the living room, settling herself into a divan as if she were in her own home, and began to fiddle with the glowing, suspended charms in her staff.  Swain remained in the doorway of the room.

                “Hmm, this place hasn’t changed a bit.”  She commented, “Come on, sit down Jericho.” 

                Swain snorted, “It’s my house, I can stand if I wish.”

                LeBlanc rolled her eyes and lounged back on the divan. 

                “I presume you are here in regard to my letter?”  The tactician queried.

                “I thought you’d _never_ ask!”  LeBlanc exclaimed, “Why in the world else would I visit you?”  Sarcasm bubbled over in her voice.

                “And?”  Swain prompted, “Your response?”

                “You see, that’s the thing, I haven’t’ decided, and seeing as talking with a note is more than pointless, it seemed only proper to discuss the matter directly with you.” 

                “What is there to discuss?”  Swain asked with slight irritation.

                “Why should _I_ take part in anything related to the military?  You know, the military _some of us_ vowed to rally against.”  LeBlanc gave a cutting glare. 

                “If you don’t want to come, then we have nothing more to discuss and I must be at the ceremony in less than an hour.  Good day to you.”  Swain said with a bit more urgency, her jibes trying his patience. 

                “Oh, of course, your _ceremony_ to be promoted to a slightly more decorated _dog_.” LeBlanc cackled mockingly. 

                “Enough of your berating!”  Swain snapped.  “I need your support Evaine, more now than ever.  You promised me.” 

                LeBlanc spoke softly, “Are we not just using one another?” 

                The silence of unspoken words suffocated the chamber.

She exhaled deeply.  “Alright then, this evening, I’ll do your bidding.  I’ll meet  you on the dais promptly at seven, you best not be late.” 

                She curtsied pertly and made her way to the door, pausing long enough to say, “You had better be there when _I_ need _you_.”  She swept away, but not before Swain noticed her subtly touch the onyx thorn ring on her finger – a gesture only he would catch.  It made the tactician sigh deeply.

                Before LeBlanc was out the door, Swain called out, “Evaine, where is my bird?” 

                “Mmm, thought you had forgotten.”  From the sash at her hip, she opened a hollow and pulled out the incredibly panicked, long-necked bird.  It shrieked and cawed frantically until LeBlanc released it.  The bird promptly scrambled over to Swain’s shoulder, huddling terrified against his head.  Beatrice, irritated that the bird had taken _her_ perch, promptly cuffed the poor thing with her wing, scolding it for being a coward. 

                As if the bird wasn’t already traumatized enough.

                “I wish you would quit doing that to my birds,” Swain sighed. 

                “Then speak to me directly – don’t send a messenger.”  She chortled.  An illusion shimmer over her body, and the next moment she was not LeBlanc but a Noxian soldier, who departed swiftly. 

                “It must pain her to be disguised so.” Swain muttered, but he knew it would be dangerous for them to be seen consorting together at his estate, and a Noxian soldier made a bit more sense for one coming and going from his house. 

                Swain took the long-necked bird back to the aviary, deciding to keep it out, and gave it a two-day old hunk of meat, which he tore up greedily.  Beatrice also snapped up a morsel, much to the other bird’s distress.  He haughtily flew up to rejoin his flock in their roosts. 

                Beatrice fluffed up, seeming to be pleased with her dominate status.  The general petted her head and locked up the aviary, muttering all the while about how he didn’t need any “bird drama” to top off all his other problems. 

* * *

                The ceremony, as he guessed, was swift and well hidden.  Deep in the underbelly of Noxus, in a series of chambers Swain doubted even the Black Rose knew of, the Darkbourne Hold, Noxus’ High Command gathered.  Grand General Boram Darkwill stood at the head of the chamber upon a marble altar, masked and robed in impressive tyrannical gear.  Kieran and Draythe Darkwill flanked him, along with Swain’s ally, General Darius.  Conspicuously empty was General du Couteau’s seat, though the tactician could see the silhouette of this daughter, Katarina, observing on his behalf in the corner. 

                Boram Darkwill stepped forward, raising a hand to bring the ceremony to order.  The tomb-like silence of the chamber was suffocating.  Swain paid no heed to the pressure as Boram Darkwill began to speak.  The Grand General’s voice wavered, grinding harshly with age.  The reclusive man was far older than Swain, and the tactician had a suspicion that his masked face hid a wickedly haggard visage. 

                “We gather here today to acknowledge this man, Lieutenant General Swain.  His accomplishments both in and out of battle have long gone without recognition, and with a record as stunning as his own, it is high time he became a part of Noxus’ High Command.  We welcome you.”  Darkwill finished croakily. 

                Swain wondered if this impromptu flattery was a weak attempt to seal his loyalties.  He also barely suppressed a smirk at the welcoming bit – his only ally in the room was Darius, and he felt certain neither Kieran nor Draythe would mind him dead. Certainly young Miss du Couteau in the corner would love nothing more than an opportunity to put a knife in his back.  She never trusted him – smart girl – nor had Swain ever cared for her family. 

                Darkwill beckoned him forward, and Swain made his way to the foot of the altar. 

                “Do you, Lieutenant General Jericho Swain, swear to uphold the dignity, strength, and spirit of Noxus?”

                “I swear.”  Swain vowed, his surprisingly powerful voice reverberating in the small chamber.  Beatrice cawed in agreement.

                “Do you also, Lieutenant General Jericho Swain, swear upon your grave to do everything in your power for Noxus, and the greater good thereof?” 

                _The better question is, are all of_ you _ready to do what is best for Noxus,_ Swain thought, but answered in the same authoritative tone, Beatrice cawed, echoing his words eerily. 

                Darkwill nodded gravely, “I, my generals, and Noxus welcome you to the High Command.”  He gave a curt nod and Swain reciprocated with a sweeping bow. 

                There were no awards, no medals, nothing tangible to be presented; Swain didn’t need anything of the sort.  He wore his title as if he’d had it for years – and in many ways, the tactician’s commanding presence always had portrayed him as one far more powerful than his rank. 

                The generals filed out in coffin-like silence, following the winding path to the surface.  So somber were the participants, Swain felt to be amid a funeral procession and wondered why he could not hear the haunting notes of a dirge.  Once outside, the command parted, with Darkwill retreating once more into the confines of his chamber.  Darius fell in stride with Swain, no doubt to discuss some matter when the others were out of earshot.  Swain made sure to keep a distance behind, while still being in sight of Katarina.  The steely-eyed girl had a reputation for cold-blooded murder, and Swain had no intention of letting her vengefulness ruin his day.  She did not tarry, joining up with Talon outside by a pillar.  Swain was a bit surprised to see her so openly consorting with the assassin.  He wondered if they were sending a message.  Katarina and Talon were too professional for slipups.  
                He didn’t have long to ponder, for Darius prompted, “General Swain, sir, congratulations.  If I may, do you have any order for me to execute right away?” 

                “At ease Darius, there is much work to be done, but it can wait.  I intend to use my position to the zenith of its potential.” 

                “Darkwill looked weary.”  Darius commented.

                “More decrepit than I would have guessed.  One wonders how long he will last.”  Swain said pointedly.  Darius nodded.  “A plan is beginning to converge, Darius, I know not when but is it ever intoxicating, like a rose in bloom.”    
                “Of course, sir,” Darius agreed.  The great general seemed to be sorting out Swain’s exact words in his mind, though he had long since given up on deciphering the encrypted messages in Swain’s speeches. 

                “Is that all, sir?”  Darius implored

                “It is, and Darius, we’re going to a party – relax and enjoy yourself.”

“I’ll do my best.”  A grin cracked onto his stern features.

                “Good man,” Swain chuckled, smiling wryly in return. 

                Though Noxus had a reputation for stringency, Swain knew before he stepped into the main square that they also had an odd propensity for throwing parties. 

                The square had somehow been transformed from its utilitarian balefulness into a splendid courtyard.  Waning sun and paper lanterns filled the area with an uncommonly welcoming glow.  The warm light scattered off the black stone and wrought iron building, which captured bits of luminance like embers.  Vendor stations were set about conveniently, selling foods and beverages.  Gragas was already camped out at the liquor stand, and by the volume of his voice, he was most likely on his second or third barrel.  Making passersby cringe and gag were Urgot and Sion, who were apparently invited as well; partial decomposition not being a valid reason to miss the party.  Raucous laughter from the foot of the fountain at the square’s center came from none other than Draven.  The glorious executioner had become the glorious entertainer; he juggled his axes, determined as always to be the center of attention.  Much to egg on his limitless ego, a sizeable crowd had already gathered. 

                As Swain surveyed about further, he noticed with a twinge of irritation that Katarina and Talon hung on the outskirts of the revel; he also spotted a small pack of gossip-hungry Journal of Justice reporters.  The tactician grumbled to himself; if this had truly been _his_ party, not a military appointed one; he would have been more selective with the guests.  His idea of a good party would be tea with LeBlanc, Beatrice, and maybe Darius (the general in question was standing at the edge of the carousing, still stoic, in full armor, and stubbornly hanging onto his axe, Darius looked mildly at ease.  As if to prove it, a small flower was pinned to his chest plate).  But, unfortunately, as a cause of his near-celebrity status, being a League champion, he would be hounded by the Journal of Justice dogs, and the festivities of this evening’s celebration would doubtless bleed into the coming week. 

                “You’re late.”  A wry voice teased, “But I expected that.  And for your information, this little corner is _not_ the dais.”

                Swain turned to find LeBlanc beside him.  To his surprise she wore, instead of her normal clothes, a rich purple satin dress edged with gold and embroidered with lavender.  It had a tapering hem, shorter in the front and flowing out into a train in the back. Her staff had been shifted into an elegant cane, and the jeweled headdress transformed into a fancy hair piece. 

                “You look nice.”  Swain commented.  An understatement, really, he couldn’t shake the thought of how lovely she looked. 

                “As do you; that sort of thing happens when you don’t constantly wear a frown,” She teased, “shall we go before the good spirits run out?” 

                “Agreed M’lady.”  Swain made a shallow bow and offered his elbow.  LeBlanc tucked her hand into the crook and the two were off. 

                “This feels almost unreal Evaine,” Swain murmured so only she could hear.  They meandered through the throngs of people.

                “It does, doesn’t it?”  She sounded nearly wistful, “But after anticipating this day for so long how could it not?”

                They stopped on the dais.  Out of the corner of his eyes, Swain caught sight of the Journal of Justice dogs that huddled in a pack nearby.  One caught a glimpse of the general and his companion and none too subtly nudged his fellow man, whispering earnestly. 

                Swain growled under his breath, “those blasted journalists, must they leave nothing a secret?” 

                LeBlanc leaned closer to him and whispered a breath’s distance from his ear, “this is the price you pay for fame, my dearest, enjoy it while it lasts.”  She nestled her head against his shoulder, making the Journal of Justice writers whisper and gossip amongst themselves.  Their next issue would be fraught with scandalous tabloids, Swain thought irritably.  But if it were inevitable, he would at least enjoy his evening with LeBlanc. 

* * *

 

                The two not impressed by the revel still watched contemptuously from their proper place in the shadows. 

                “Look at him,” Katarina snarled, “gallivanting around as if her were already king.” 

                “Mmhmm.” Her companion, Talon, mumbled distractedly. 

                “Are you listening?”  She snapped irritably.

                “Yes,” he fumbled with a scrap of paper he held. 

                “Is that a note you’re reading?”  Katarina craned her head to see.

                “N-no!  It’s nothing,” Talon hastily crammed the paper deep into the folds of his cloak. 

                “And what does he mean by being here with LeBlanc?  It could be a publicity stunt – he likes putting on a show…”

                Katarina’s grumblings were interrupted by a foolishly brave Journal of Justice reporter. 

                “Excuse me, Ms du Couteau; I was wondering if I could ask a few questions about your search for your fa-”

                “Don’t talk to me!”  Katarina eyed him icily, “I have important family matters to attend to.”  She jabbed one of her small daggers at the reporter for effect.  The man attempted to reply, but found only gibberish dribbled from his flapping lips. 

                “Come Talon!”  Katarina stormed off in uncharacteristic rage; the second assassin bobbed in her smoldering waking, looking quite like a bumbling lackey, though in reality both were forces to be reckoned with, and while Swain celebrated the night away, a plot brewed thick in the du Couteau household; baleful, baleful indeed. 


	4. Discord

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Flirtatious Molting*

Chapter 4

Discord

_Two weeks after Swain’s promotion…_

                Of all the families in Noxus, the du Couteau household was a paradigm of power and influence.  But as of recent, to say that the du Couteau household exuded such prestige would be a sorely misplaced statement.  Though Katarina ran herself ragged, the manor had been in incurable disarray since the disappearance of her father.  Her inconsolable sisters were like infants again, and Cassiopeia had, in grief, been demolishing servants with gross indifference.  Talon, stone-faced and unreadable, even seemed more down than usual. 

                And to top it off, the sinister blade still had a thorn in her side – Jericho Swain.  That old man was ever up to _something_.  What?  She hadn’t an inkling.  It was bad enough he couldn’t have taken forced retirement to heart.  Some old men just wouldn’t take a hint.  Katarina paced relentlessly in her chambers; try as she might, she could not decipher the general’s plan.  She knew near everything when it came to assassinating, but intense political schemes always swam above her head.  Sure, she was generally the representative for Noxus, but that came from being a League champion – and for her overwhelming intimidation factor.  She could handle the word trickery of most delegates, but Swain was simply out of her league. 

                Recently, before her father’s disappearance, she’d been entirely preoccupied with the Ionia-Noxus rematch and unable to pay attention to Swain conniving.  She huffed angrily and flopped onto her bed.  Squeezing her eyes shut, Katarina hoped a moment of silence would clear her pulsating thoughts. 

                She would not even be afforded a second. 

                “Katarina!”  One of her sisters screamed as she burst through the door.  “Cassiopeia – she – she’s at it again!  The servants!”  The girl fainted. 

                Katarina grumbled something about having a backbone and stepped over her sister’s collapsed body, blades in hand. 

                “Talon!”  Katarina called, “I need a hand!” 

                “M’kay.”  The assassin stepped out of seemingly nowhere – but Katarina was entirely unruffled; she’d grown quite accustomed to his stealth.   The two scoured the halls for Cassiopeia, finding her at the source of the commotion. 

                The serpentine diva had already dispatched one servant, leaving a bloody mess on the floor.  Three or four others had become flailing statues. Cassiopeia had on this rare occasion emerged from her chambers to wreak havoc.  The rest of the servants who survive the initial barrage tried unsuccessfully to dash down the hallway to safety.  Cassiopeia hissed and began to wind up for another round. 

                Katarina “tsked” unhappily under her breath and dove heedlessly at her sister. 

                “Cass!  What are you doing?”  Katarina grabbed her sister’s shoulders and shook her, “Is this about father again?”

                “Yesss!”  Cassiopeia halted and started weeping as frustrated rage melted to tears.  “You don’t know what it’s like to be c-cooped up in here without a-any way to t-t-try and find father!” 

                “I do Cass, I really do.  I’ve tried everything to find him.”  Cassiopeia sobbed harder.  “You – we – just have to trust that he’ll return. He’s not gone yet – and one of the most feared generals in Noxus won’t be easy to beat.”  This seemed to calm Cassiopeia a bit.  She wiped bleary eyes, catching sight of Talon, who was awkwardly standing at the edge of the fray, in the process. 

                “Don’t look at me!”  She lashed out, vainly attempting to hide her monstrous appearance.

                Talon blinked and wordlessly shuffled around.  Katarina rolled her eyes and lead the serpent girl back to her room. 

                “Cass – change the servants back.” 

                “Fine.”  She huffed, the stone people snapped back to life and all the staff made a hasty exodus, “they tried to console me, but what do they know about suffering?”

                Katarina bit back a rude “they deal with your moodiness on a daily basis, if that’s not suffering, what is?” 

                Instead she reassured, “come and talk to me whenever you feel upset; I’d prefer if you don’t kill anymore of the staff.”

                “Alright.”  Cassiopeia curled up on her bed.

                “Dinner will be at six; _I’ll_ come and let you know, lest you be ‘offended’ by another servant.”  Katarina left briskly before her sister could reply. 

                Talon slunk off after Cassiopeia’s episode, back to the only spot in the house he truly felt at home: General du Couteau’s study.  He sat cross-legged at the base of the general’s desk and idly gazed at a framed photo of du Couteau. The one next to it was probably the last family portrait before Cassiopeia had changed, before the general had disappeared and life had become pure turmoil. Talon knew the pain of loss was unbearable for the du Couteau girls, but the keen ache was no less for him.  He had no family, and no memory of one to speak of.  Du Couteau had been his life; his mentor, his idol, his rival.  Life without him was a cruel and meaningless existence.

                Talon pulled out the photo of the general he always kept with him.  It was slightly wrinkled from residing in his cloak pocket, but there it would stay, next to his heart.  The blade’s shadow set the picture aside and a frown transformed his face.  Whoever had ambushed du Couteau would pay.  The assassin had no qualms about that.  He felt in his gut that Swain was the culprit.  The old man was ceaselessly ambitious, and he had proven in the past that nothing would stand in his way, and survive.  Rumor had it he’d made pacts with a host of demonic entities.  Du Couteau had just been another obstruction in Swain’s power struggle.  It only made sense that the tactician would see fit to “remove” him.  Without du Couteau to overshadow him, Swain then became the obvious replacement.  The slick general took advantage of the unrest to seal his easy promotion.  Talon was furious; with this step out of the way, what was stopping Swain from clawing his way to the top?  Talon fully intended to make sure such an atrocity would never happen – why else would he have tried to assassinate the bastard?  But Swain’s abominable bird had saved his worthless hide.  The blade’s shadow wondered when the general’s good fortune would run dry.

                Footsteps padded down the hall – making Talon jump and quickly put the pictures back in place.

                “Are you here?”  Katarina asked.  She swung open the door.  “Why are you in my father’s study?”  Curiosity etched onto her scowling face.

                “Looking for…evidence” Talon stammered.  Silence hung heavy in the air.  “Oh, um, do you think Cassiopeia needs checking on?”  Talon half shoved – half herded Katarina out of his secret haven.  Once the door had been shut Katarina growled, “I’m not checking on Cass, I’ve had enough of her angst.  If _you’re_ so concerned, _you_ check on her!” 

                Talon was unsure of what to do- Katarina was in a particularly dangerous mood, but checking on Cassiopeia wasn’t exactly an appealing idea. 

                “ _Could_ you check on Cassiopeia?” Katarina looked weary under her frustration.

Talon stood awkwardly and nodded, wanting somehow to reassure or calm her, but knowing it was out of his bounds.  Without a word, Talon slipped off once more to the serpentine diva’s chambers – still befuddled how he got himself into such a hole.  He hovered outside Cassiopeia’s door, debating for several minutes if entry was really such a good idea.  But Talon steeled himself, he had dealt with Cassiopeia on a daily basis and in retrospect, he’d been up against far worse than a hormonal serpent-woman.  He knocked once, twice, and waited.  Dimly, he could hear sounds of destruction rippling through the camber – they halted at the sound of his knocking.

Cassiopeia tore open the door, about to screech invectives at whoever had dared disturb her.  She halted abruptly at the sight of Talon.

“Oh, it’s _you_.”  She went from ragey to flirty in a heartbeat.

Talon stood stiffly and conveyed his message with mechanical indifference.  “Katarina asked me to see if you were feeling better.”

“Mmm but is that _all_ you came here for?  Or did you want to see me?”  She smiled seductively.

“Are you better?” Talon replied uncomfortably.

“I’d feel better if you came with me.”  She darted out her clawed hand and clamped Talon’s arm in a vice-like grip; dragging him into her chamber.  Talon wondered if this was how a trapped wolf felt.  Suddenly the idea of gnawing off one’s arm didn’t seem so bad…

The diva’s room was trashed as Talon had suspected.  All manner of fine items lay strewn and broken on the floor.  He paused when he stepped on something that crunched.  With a pang of revulsion, Talon realized it was a snake’s skin.

“Hmm, yes, it’s my molting time.” 

“Uh.” Talon failed to form words.

“Don’t you find me…beautiful?”  She asked.

Talon thought this was a trick question, and declined replying in favor of not becoming a statue.

“Don’t be coy.” She batted her eyelashes. A few more patches of scales had begun to flake off her shoulders. “Look Talon, I’m shedding some _scales_.”  She purred and sidled up to the assassin.

Mild horror and outright disgust filled Talon as he suppressed violent out lash.  With Cassiopeia still staring lecherously at him, the assassin reached his wit’s end at last.

The blade’s shadow vaulted past the serpentine diva, mad-dashing for the door.  Cassiopeia was speechless for a moment as Talon half stumbled-half flew out her chamber.  Until he ran into Katarina, Talon did not stop running.

“Hey!” she snapped, “What in the world are you doing?”

“Your sister is molting.” Talon burst bluntly. 

“She does that.” Katarina said flatly.

“ _Flirtatiously_.”

“Oh.” Katarina seemed just as appalled as her assassin counterpart.  She swiftly composed herself, “I’m leaving – just got an urgent message from the Institute of War.  They need me to help oversee the Ionia versus Noxus rematch.” 

“But you weren’t of the selected champions?” Talon implored.

“No, I’m just representing.  It should be interesting; I’m certain Karma will be giving me a piece of her mind.  A perfect opportunity to beat that whiny Ionian back into submission.”  Katarina shouldered her pack “My carriage is waiting.  Don’t do anything foolish while I’m away.”  She said sternly.

“I won’t guarantee that.” Talon replied. 

Katarina snorted knowingly and departed.

* * *

The ride to the Institute of War was uneventful to say the least.  Outside the remarkable building Katarina was met with jeers from Ionian spectators and fervent cheers from Noxian spectators. She took her seat amongst the elites from both sides; sectioned off from each other, of course.  The sinister blade was surrounded by stuffy officials from Noxus – the ones she tried to avoid. 

High Counselor Vessaria Kolminye was the announcer of the match, which began promptly. The champions surged onto the field, and several minutes in, First Blood was drawn by Ashe for Ionia, much to Noxus’ dismay.  Katarina was confident Noxus would make a comeback though, and let her mind wander back to Swain, and the party.  Why would he be with LeBlanc?  She had an inkling they’d known each other in the past – but to work together for any other reason… She strained to think of a common purpose for the two – Swain was with the military and LeBlanc with the Black Rose – the two were natural opposites.  And Swain wouldn’t be drawn to the Black Rose; it wasn’t even a viable source of power.  Or was it?  Until LeBlanc joined the League, Katarina had almost forgotten he cult from generations past – everyone had.  But after near annihilation it was unthinkable that the Black Rose could regroup – was it?  Katarina rubbed her temples in frustration.  There were too many gaps in her knowledge to draw conclusions yet. 

She peeked at the match, noting with disgust that the score was shifting in Ionia’s favor. 

When it was over, Katarina made her obligatory way to shake hands with the opponent.  Karma waited in the announcer’s box with Vessaria. 

“Well played.” Karma said stiffly as she shook the assassin’s hand. 

“Quite.” Katarina growled.  The tension nearly crackled in the air.

“I suppose you two should report the results back to your homeland.”  Vessaria broke the exchange gently. 

Katarina, who was not in the mood to be ordered around, stalked away, fuming. 

As she waited for her carriage, the unmistakable hulking figure of Garen meandered through the crowd. Katarina shrank back where she stood, not wanting to deal with the Demacian. But the vanguard missed nothing, and while Katarina attempted to dash to her carriage, he caught sight of her and stepped in her path. 

“Hello Garen.”  She said icily.

“Katarina.  I – I saw the match.”

“Oh really?”

“A pity they didn’t summon you; victory would have been all too easy.”

“It would have.  Now if you’ll excuse me.”  Katarina squeezed by the vanguard, a growing discomfort filling her gut. 

“Until next time; I suppose I’ll be seeing you on the Fields of Justice.”    
                “Indeed, I look forward to it.”  She surprised even herself as the words slipped out.  She would be _pleased_ to see a Demacian? Preposterous.  Before she could blunder further, Katarina clambered into her carriage.  From the back window, Garen was smiling.  _At her_. His blue eyes twinkled – why would she, Katarina du Couteau, notice that?  As the carriage pulled away, she wasn’t willing to admit that a Demacian had set her heart aflutter. 

* * *

 

                A day later, Swain paced in his study as usual, humming to a Pentakill track he had acquired more or less legitimately.  His spirits fell when the paper was delivered.  He and all other Noxians felt the collective dismay at the sight of the headline:

_“Ionia Defeats Noxus”_


	5. Portent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The clot thickens...

Chapter 5

 Portent  
_Nearly a month later…_

                Darkness fell on Kalamanda.  Bells rang, ushering the miners to return to their camps.  The Noxian faction lumbered home, sitting in grim groups around campfires and cleaning off their tools.  About an hour later, the overseer did a head count to find one man missing.

                “Has anyone seen Gauger?”  He growled.

                “That ol’ drunk?  Who gives a yordle’s arse?”  One miner, deep into the bottle himself, ridiculed.

                “He just better not lose any equipment.”  The overseer grumbled and dropped the subject. 

* * *

                The following day, the Demacian miners filed dutifully into the depths of Kalamanda.  They picked, chipped, and panned away layers of sediment – finding plentiful veins of ore, but no trace of the ultimate prize: a Nexus. 

                Shortly after lunch, a rumbled trembled through the mines.  Pebbles sprayed onto unsuspecting miners. 

                “The hell?”  One complained, “There weren’t supposed to be earthquakes ‘ere.”

                “Probably nothing.”  Another snorted.

                Surrounding miners scoffed at the prospect.  Their skeptic choked in their throats as the shaking intensified.  Without warning, great cracks lacerated the ceiling while chasms split the floor and a deluge of rocks pummeled the men. 

                When the dust settled, none were dead, several injured.  The first miner tried to clear rubble from the exit tunnel, but met only solid boulders blocking both exits.  He flung himself against the stones, futilely; they would not budge. 

                “Stop that! You’ll bring the whole friggin’ mine down!”  Another miner restrained the desperate man.

                The rest of the miners huddled together, the full realization of their predicament finally setting in.

                “I s’pose we’re trapped.” 

* * *

 

                Word of the trapped miners spread like a conflagration – once the Demacian camp learned of their absence, Journal of Justice reporters around Kalamanda caught wind of the story and in no time all of Valoran knew of the miners’ plight.

                It was at the head of a training exercise that the news reached Swain.  If his first thought was irritation for the mewlings of Demacian whelps, his second was to consult Darius.  The two generals huddled together in the announcer’s box at the top of the training arena. 

                “What do they expect us to do about it?” Darius grumbled.

                “Nothing, I suppose.  But that would reinforce their cause.” Swain pondered.

                “Sir?”

                “Think for a moment Darius, Demacia gets in trouble, who are they going to blame?  Noxus of course, it’s only natural we’ll be pegged the scapegoat.”  Swain drummed his fingers.  “Ionia and Piltover have already offered up aid, we shall do likewise.” 

                “Are you – sir! _Help them?!_ ” Darius stammered. 

                “If Noxus had anything to do with this incident – which I assure you I know nothing of – Demacia will point fingers and Noxus might be punished by the League itself.  Offering aid will send those doddering fools in circles, while projecting a positive image of Noxus to the rest of Valoran.  At least so far as the League is concerned.  Until we get to the bottom of the matter, keeping political mishaps at bay is crucial.” 

                Darius nodded, “I see.  Your orders?”

                “Send the troops.”

* * *

 

                The carriage lurched yet again, sending Swain back against his seat.  Several vehement oaths slipped out under his breath as he righted himself.

                “So sure you want to see the mines yourself?” The soldier next to him implored.

                “Hush, my public appearance is necessary.”  The general grumbled, “I was much more confused when you insisted upon coming as well, LeBlanc.”

                She sighed, “The underworld gets so _boring_ once you know it tip to tail.  The military rarely sends patrols to pick off wayward cult members, so there’s no one to murder, and my subordinates are the ones who train recruits – I have nothing to do.”  She turned her head, masked with the soldier’s uniform, “besides, I thought you may need someone to watch your back.”

                “I don’t need to be coddled.” Swain snorted.

                “Perhaps you should be grateful to have someone who would.”  She fell silent and Swain followed suit.

                They arrived in Kalamanda late afternoon.  A soldier escort quickly encircled the carriage, but before the door was opened, LeBlanc slipped away to her own purposes. 

                As a result, the unlucky man to open the door was more than befuddled to find Swain alone.

                “Sir, didn’t you have a soldier accompanying you?” He stuttered.

                “What are you talking about?” Swain said grumpily.

                “You had a bodyguard!”

                “You’re not making a yordle of sense.” Swain hobbled by him and ordered gruffly, “stop your dilly-dally.” 

                The bemused soldier bumbled behind Swain and fell in step with the rest of the general’s entourage. 

                Swain met briefly with Mayor Anson Ridley, a small balding man with a nervous manner.  Perfunctory words were exchanged with little interest and Swain returned to a massive tent that had been prepared for him. The interior was sectioned off into three parts, one with a  cot and dresser, another with a  desk, upon which the general’s trunk of battle plans, blueprints, books, stationary and other schematics had been placed.  The third was equipped with a woodstove and a miniature cabinet set.  Upon inspecting the kitchen, he was not in the least bit surprised to see LeBlanc already there, fixing herself a spot of tea and a sandwich. 

                “You’re back.” She commented, “hungry, dear?”

                “Not in the least,” Swain answered, “though I’d prefer if you didn’t use the stove whilst I’m away. You’ll raise suspicion.”

                “Ah, as always you underestimate me; I heated the tea with my magic.”

                “Then it must be dreadful,” Swain grumbled.

                LeBlanc took a sip and shuddered, “Bracing indeed, but I simply _must_ have my tea.”  She drank more thoughtfully, “I’d much prefer something sweeter to your bitter brew.” 

                Swain changed the subject for the serious.  “I’m to inspect the mines before sundown.  When my escort comes, you’d best make yourself scarce.”

                “I’m rather good at that,” she chuckled.  “Katarina made a statement earlier, extending her condolences to the Demacian miners.” 

                “So I heard,” Swain grumbled, “then she had to go ruin our case by making a jibe at Demacian mining techniques.”  The general rubbed his nose pensively, “from now on I’ll be the one speaking on behalf of Noxus.”

                “Before the little assassin can wreck anything else?”  LeBlanc chortled.

                “Precisely,” he stood and peered at the tent opening, “I do believe my escort is arriving, until later, LeBlanc.”

                “Of course,” she curtsied mockingly.  As the general exited she coyly voiced from the tent, “Don’t fall into the mine.”

                Swain relinquished a retort and whatever pride such a rebuke held.  At least she had forgiven him enough to tease. 

                Mayor Ridely headed the escort, flanked by ten or so of Swain’s personal guard. 

                “You wished to see the mines?” He sniveled, clearly uncomfortable in the presence of Swain.

                _No_ , Swain didn’t really want to, “Yes, of course.” He answered with forced cordiality. 

                They walked to the mouth of the mine, the rocky terrain not conducive to Swain’s limp.  A gaping hole formed the mouth of the mine, and as the general looked into the pitch-black maw he could not banish a sense of foreboding - and empathy for the trapped civilians.  Demacian or not, that was all the men were, and though Swain had never been fond of the city state, his main issues began and ended with Jarvan IV.  The “exemplar” would do anything against Noxus to spite Swain; he wouldn’t.  Swain was wiser than that. 

                Ridley fidgeted as Swain pondered, “this is the Noxian mine opening, “ the mayor explained, “I’d show you more, but the other city states have requested not to have other factions near their entrances. 

                “Understandable, though I hardly think a peek would harm anything.”  Swain chuckled.

                “The Demacian group specifically voiced they didn’t want any Noxians in the vicinity.” Ridley relayed, “and sir, if you do have any control over the Zaun miners, please order them to limit the use of dangerous chemicals; it’s ruining the environment!”

                “I’ll see what I can do.” Swain replied reasonably, “until next time, Mayor.”

                “Yes General Swain,” he seemed all too eager to distance himself from the tactician.  Swain too was pleased to retire for the evening. 

                Back in his makeshift study, several hex-tech lanterns flickered with semi-bright luminance as he made not of the day’s events.  Swain sensed all the problems in Kalamanda were more than skin deep. Who all was involved was yet to be seen, but the general was content in waiting.  He knew only time would tell its tale.   

* * *

 

                The weeks that followed were mostly uneventful.  An excavation crew had begun the laborious task of unearthing the miners.  Commodities like food, water, and clothing were fed down a lifeline to the miners.  Swain mostly kept to himself; he oversaw what was completely necessary and let the mining experts their job.  A small guard resided there as well; to break up fight, not instigate them.  Unease amongst the citizens of Kalamanda seemed to grow as other factions, the largest being Demacia, began to bring troops as well.  Though peace was promised to be paramount, such ideals wavered in the face of armed soldiers.

                As winter melted into spring, geological experts among other scientists (Heimerdinger himself was rumored to be taking part) deemed the mine stable enough for major excavation to take way.  Drilling commenced immediately, the grinding racked echoing throughout the town day and night, stopping only long enough the build scaffolding and to double check the fortitude of the mine walls.  

                Several days of break-neck work reaped promising results.  Mere meters below where the workers drilled, the miners waited in cautious optimism.  On the other end of the mine, another team drilled deep to the predicted source of the quake. 

                As the geologists claimed, the source of the seismic fault was not among the predicted boundaries.  However, directly in the vicinity lay evidence of _human_ tampering.

                A day later though, great joy overtook the Demacian camp as all twelve minders, nearly a month later, resurfaced.  Families and friends were reunited and the sound of good spirits lasted long past sundown.  The celebration was only embittered by the finding at the other end of the excavation: evidence of Noxian sabotage.

                The Noxian miners present at the event luckily left before any fights broke out – but the threat of violence immediately became a concern.

                When the word reached Swain, he was furious.  Then to top it off, he had about twenty people demanding an audience with him – Journal of Justice reporters, Demacian ambassadors, Noxian miners, and Kalamanda officials.  Finally the general saw no end to the chaos, made and exit through the back, and ordered a soldier to announce that he’d moved his head quarters. 

                From his new command post, Swain received word that Katarina had been summoned to the front to remove all Noxians from the vicinity of the mines.  Garen had been brought from Demacia for the purpose of doing the same with his city-state’s miners.  Both sides hung suspended in uneasy half-truce for the time being.  All waited for a formal statement from the League. 

Summoner Heywan Relivash gathered Ridely, Garen, Katarina, and Swain (for he insisted upon coming) as representatives for their respective city-states.  After a terse exchange of words, Summoner Relivash decided to postpone any further decisions for the following days, lest rash thoughts come to dictate the solution.  All departed in different directions, though equal heckling was distributed as they made their way from the meeting chamber. 

                Swain slouched wearily in his tent, which had been moved, pending his announcement, to a more quiet area.  He rubbed his temples as a pervasive headache ebbed and flowed within his skull.  Kalamanda was finally giving him literal headaches, aside from the metaphorical ones he always groused about.  Sardonically, he thought, the headache was like a cherry on top of the Kalamanda-chaos sundae, just _dripping_ with about a thousand things to peeve him.

                A rustling noise alerted Swain, and the already cantankerous general wasted no time grabbing his cane to wreck havoc on whomever dared disturb him at this hour.  He rent open the tent flap to revel the slim, black hooded figure that could only be LeBlanc. 

                She pursed her lips, “Surprised to see me?”

                “Surprised you didn’t think it necessary to disguise yourself.” Swain grunted.  He herded her inside with a light shove.

                “Honestly though,” she started, “its pitch black out there, no one saw me.”  She undid the black rose clasp on her cloak and draped it over one Swain’s trunks, “I _was_ a bit confused as to why your tent was in a different spot.”

                “You don’t want to know.” Swain growled.

                “And I can tell by that look on your face you don’t want to talk about the mining crisis. Word gets around, so I know all about it.”  Swain growled something unintelligible in response, “Perhaps you’d be interested in something a bit more secretive. 

                Swain’s interest was piqued; LeBlanc led him over to his desk.  He took the chair and she levitated on her staff. 

                “It’s quite the tale.  About a month ago I snuck into the Institute of War, disguised as a novice summoner.  As such, no one questioned me and I could snoop to my heart’s content.  The Institute is vast; so I didn’t have nearly enough time to see everything.  I decided against disturbing their “sacred” Judgment chamber, and instead took a glance at what the Institute is holing away.  They have three or four enormous store rooms – mostly filled with relics or miscellaneous garbage, but one of those rooms held something of interest; a fairly new looking shipment of explosives. _Arcano-seismic_ charges, among others.”

                “How many?”

                “Enough to keeps Ziggs happy for a day or two.”

                “A lot, then.”  Swain paused, “you’re certain they were arcane-seismic charges?”

                “I am.  That same room also held a number of casks of Nyzer poisoning – enough to keep Singed busy for a few experiments.  I snuck a bit of it.”  She pulled out a small flask that hung on a chain around her neck, “just in case,” she added as Swain shook his head.

                “As long as you’re sure they won’t notice it missing.”

                “They’d be more upset if I’d taken one of the Noxian military uniforms, though there’s no shortage of them here.”

                “The _what_ , pray tell?”  Swain burst.

                “Uniforms.  It seems our precious League has acquired quite an armament of varying uniforms from each of the city-states.  In other words…”

                “Easy evidence to plant.”  Swain mulled over this revelation.

                “Did it ever occur to you that the League may have had a hand in the chaos they now are so desperately trying to cull?  Just think of it.”

                “I hardly think they’d risk such a maneuver…yet it makes perfect logic they would.”

                “Nexuses,” LeBlanc breathed, “have there been any more confirmed findings?” 

                “No – but they’re not taking any chances.”  Swain thought a moment, “if the League is involved, I don’t believe all of it is part of this.  I suppose I could ask Vessaria – she _always_ enjoys my visits.”  Swain permitted a smirk.

                A slight frown however manifested itself on Leblanc’s face, though she bottled up the true extent of her emotions.  “I’d rather you not.”  She said haughtily.

                “And,” Swain tapped the vial of Nyzer poison, “I’d rather you not masquerade in the Institute of War.”

                “It never stopped you,” she snapped.

                “That was different,” Swain said defensively.

                “Because it was Jarvan?  Honestly, you’re such a child sometimes.”

                Swain narrowed his eyes dangerously at her, and for a moment LeBlanc wondered if she’d truly overstepped her bounds. 

                “Have you… told me all you wished to say?”  He asked with the forced pleasantry he always used to cover up some inner turmoil. 

                “Yes,” LeBlanc spoke in a subdued manner, “I only wished to share that the League may have been involved.”  
                “I hope you’re right about this one – and that some wayward Noxian faction wasn’t the culprit,” Swain gave her a cold glare.

                She held his gaze unblinkingly and murmured with much less sass than usual, “would I lie?”  LeBlanc then slipped away to the adjacent room, the chamber had suddenly become stifling.  The deceiver sank down onto the cot and cradled her head in her hands.  She hadn’t meant to anger Swain, but sometimes she forgot how her words could hurt. 

                The general sat had his desk for hours, scribbling down thoughts and ruminating over the chain of events from the past twenty four hours.  He had been told Demacia was looking to make a private mining contract with Kalamanda – a contract for exclusive right that would most likely be shared with its allies, effectively bumping Noxus out of the picture.  The supposed Noxian sabotage was just the leverage they needed for such an endeavor.  Swain needed a counter attack – some way to turn the tide back on Demacia…but how…  The tactician came up empty.  He took a moment to rise and see where LeBlanc had gone – his anger had begun to soften. 

                In the adjoining room he found her curled up on his cot, fast asleep.  Almost tenderly, Swain pulled a blanket over her, tucking it under her chin.  He then reached forward to brush a few wayward strands of hair out off her face.  But his hand stopped inches from her cheek.  Swain couldn’t, it wasn’t his place…at one time it had been entirely his place, but now…not now. 

                He clenched his fist and clacked out of the room quickly.  There was work to be done, and for now sleep was a luxury Swain could forgo. 

* * *

 

                When LeBlanc woke, Swain was sleeping soundly on his desk, face planted into a stack of papers.  She contemplated waking him, but decided to wait until she’d brewed up some tea for the both of them. 

                Wafting a steamy mug in front of his face, she placed her other hand on his shoulder and shook him gently.  Swain roused groggily, taking up the tea instantly and helping himself to a hearty swig before LeBlanc could forewarn, “It’s hot”

                “Quite,” Swain choked, “I needed a wakeup call,” He jumped right to the point, restacking some of the scattered papers, “I still see no solution in sight.  You know about the proposed Kalamanda – Demacia mining contract?”  LeBlanc nodded, “Personally, I couldn’t care less about the mines.  The only reason to challenge their contract is to prove a point – that Noxus won’t be so easily removed.  That’s why we need to counteract fast.  Keeping things chaotic will give us time.”

                “Time to manipulate the situation,” LeBlanc grinned wickedly, “we can use the chaos to our advantage – and perhaps in the process we will both be able to get what we want.”  She cast an insinuative look at the general.

                “I do believe it’s time to return home, Matron, I need to see if there are any Demacian prisoners willing to play along.”

* * *

 

                Swain consulted Darius and the two devised a plan to have a prisoner testify that Demacia had attempted to frame Noxus – the alibi would suffice for the time being.  As suspected, most of the prisoners refused to take part – there were only a handful of them left after the League required the return of all prisoners.  A few, however, had slipped the League’s notice – undoubtedly other city-states had done likewise.  The newer inmates were completely adamant and would not cooperate.  But, after much prompting, an older prisoner came forth, Swain wasn’t even sure if he was a Demacian – but he went willingly. 

                Thom Garvin was his name – an average age, average height, average looking man. His cover story was simple: he’d been captured by Noxian forces after being caught near their mines without explicit permission.  Then he would admit to murdering a Noxian to plant evidence so Demacia could finalize its contract.  The only potential flaw in the logic held the question, why would Demacians put their own people in danger?  Greed, of course, did terrible things to people, and, Swain grumbled to himself, maybe it’s about time the rest of the world lost its misconception that Demacia, “the shining beacon of justice” _wouldn’t_  ever engage in corrupt practices. 

                With Garvin ready, Swain merely had to wait until Demacia was on the verge of making a contract and then leak the news.  What he learned shortly thereafter drastically changed his plans.  Demacia was arranging _exclusive_ privileges with the mine – in other words, Kalamanda would receive a percent of the profit, but they were basically handing the mines over.  In Kalamanda, a meeting was scheduled to take place mere days away.  Tryndamere represented Freljord, Ridley for Kalamanda, and Jarvan IV himself for Demacia.  Noxus’ invitation had been conveniently forgotten – more likely ignored all together.  The tactician deemed a tactless approach to this situation appropriate.  At this point in the game, a little flamboyancy wouldn’t hurt. 

                Darius must have had similar sentiments, for he didn’t question when Swain set off with Garvin and about twenty soldiers to Kalamanda.

                With a commanding aura, Swain marched into the meeting, causing immediate uproar.  Jarvan IV leapt out of his seat and bellowed, “What do you think you’re doing, Noxian?”  The prince looked like he wanted nothing more than to rip Swain to shreds.

                Swain’s thoughts mirrored the Demacian’s, but he was controlled enough to quell his emotions beneath the surface.  He instead spoke evenly, “This man has confessed to the murder of the Noxian citizen in the mines, and the attempted framing of Noxus.”

                A cacophonous murmur shook the crowd.  Jarvan IV started to rage at Swain and Garvin, to which the tactician replied calmly, seeming to be unruffled.  The tense ambience began to shift towards outright conflict – and it wasn’t until Jarvan III and his Royal Party arrived that the verbal sparring came to a halt. 

Garvin refused to speak until Jarvan III prompted, “What is your name.” 

                “Thom Garvin,” he replied.

                “Is what General Swain said true?”

                Garvin looked greatly distressed in the presence of his king and spluttered, “I obeyed the commands of your son, the Prince.” 


	6. Stalemate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tag yourself I'm Karthus.

Chapter 6

Stalemate

                The meeting immediately burst into chaos.  Jarvan IV leapt up and roared just over the riotous din, “liar!  I never ordered such a thing!”  He jabbed a finger in Swain’s face.

                “Of course you wouldn’t publicly admit to your crimes!”  Swain bellowed in return. 

                Jarvan IV’s face contorted in fury, he opened his mouth and rattled a list of accusations at the tactician.  Swain denied none of them – deferring to ignore his ranting entirely.  The irate prince put Tryndamere to shame (the barbarian in question looked a tad bored, while Mayor Ridley groaned in frustration).  Troops on both sides began to cluster belligerently behind their leaders. When it appeared the two could no longer argue sanely, (if they ever could), the king stepped up and ordered Jarvan IV to be silent.  The prince reluctantly took a seat – still smoldering.  Swain, nearly at the end of his patience, but hiding it better, was almost thankful Jarvan III had stepped in. 

                “Seeing as nothing but spite will come from this meeting, I would request further questioning of the prisoner be delayed.” the king announced. 

                “Agreed,” Swain nodded.

                “And if I may also request the prisoner be kept in Demacia – because he _is_ a citizen thereof.”  There was a barbed under current to his statement.  Swain noted this and continued.

                “I would not permit this man into either Demacian or Noxian prisons.  Both city-states may have people intent on eliminating him.  Thus, I propose he be held in Kalamanda, a neutral ground.  And Garvin should not be questioned without members of both the states present.” 

                “Very well,” Jarvan III sighed, “We should meet again in four weeks – that will be plenty of time to organize our affairs and to cool the situation – to question Garvin.”

                “Until then,” Swain bowed in his usual flamboyant manner.  With a curt nod, the general and his men filed out of the meeting. 

* * *

 

                Tension remained high in the coming weeks.  More soldiers filtered in on both sides under the reasoning of keeping important officials safe.  Swain knew better.  So did the citizens of Kalamanda who began leaving in droves as the potential for violence escalated.  The mining town, for all its innocent exterior, was girding for war. 

                Swain, who reported back to Kalamanda, mostly kept to himself, staying out of the public eye.  He noted Jarvan IV and company were doing likewise.  So much so that many, Swain included, had begun to doubt the king and prince were even in their encampment.

                Three weeks after Garvin’s confession, Swain was delivered a message from Jarvan III requesting that the questioning be pushed back again.  The general was outraged – hadn’t three weeks been plenty of time?  Swain wanted to get this Kalamanda mess finished and put under wraps.  However, after several minutes of furious pacing, the tactician came to a much different conclusion.  Why did the king want to push back the interrogations in the first place?  The reason didn’t matter so much as the public response did.  The people of Valoran would begin to wonder, why the sudden hesitation?  Doesn’t Demacia want to get the matter sorted out as soon as possible?  And if the seemingly scrupulous king had nothing to hide, why now was he beating around the bush?  Swain thought to himself, _it’s almost as though he’s playing right into my hands._ With a bit less reluctance, Swain agreed to the summons, knowing in the least that cooperating would help his case. 

* * *

 

                Gathering he could glean nothing more from Kalamanda, and seeing as he now had ample time, Swain took a carriage back to Noxus.  As much as he abhorred the rocking wheeled menace, it was slightly less nauseating than the last trip.  At least, until the driver swerved to miss something and ended up running over what he intended to avoid.  The thing thudded under the carriage wheels and a few meters later the carriage pulled to a halt.  Swain opened the window and peeked out to see what had caused such a disturbance. 

                He wasn’t at all surprised to see the trampled over body of Karthus. 

                The driver ran over to the window, distress written all over his face, “did I kill him?”

                “He’s a lich; he’s already dead.”  When the driver looked sickened, Swain added, “don’t worry, he’ll reanimate in an hour or so.”

                The driver nodded, looking dazed, and returned to his duty.  He was too professional – or proud – to admit he wasn’t used to this “superstitious hullaballoo” 

                The remainder of Swain’s trip went without a hitch. 

* * *

 

_An hour or so later…_

                Karthus regained consciousness abruptly.  He mumbled something about an inhibitor and carefully took inventory of his arms, head, and body, noticing with despair his legs were on the other side of the road.

                “Aww, not again,” he grumbled.

* * *

 

                Back in Noxus, Swain kept Darius up to date with the Kalamanda situation.  His right hand general seemed oddly uneasy. 

                “This is bigger than we could have expected, sir,” the general noted. 

                “Indeed so, yet for the time-being we can only wait.” 

                “The High Command wishes to speak with you.”  Darius announced uncomfortably.

                “What do they want?”  Swain growled.

                “To debrief you?  Kieran didn’t say.”  Darius fidgeted uncharacteristically, “I am not allowed to be present at this meeting.”

                “Are they attempting to intimidate me?”  Swain posed the question rhetorically, “They want to strip me of my imposing ally, eh?  Leave the frail old man exposed?”  Darius shrugged.  Swain chucked, “Insolent fools.”  He dismissed the general and shuffled off. The tactician easily held his doubts from Darius, but not himself.  Facing the high command, even on a seemingly harmless premise was tantamount to stepping into a viper’s nest. 

                Swain was received at the door and slowly made his way down dreary, echoing halls, through a set of great iron doors, and into the black onyx throne room. 

                This palace had been the former home to the Noxian Aristocracy when they still reigned supreme.  Swain remembered it well; the puppet government secretly manipulated by the Black Rose.  Until Boram Darkwill had overthrown it.  Now he sat on the very throne he’d connived so long to usurp. 

                The tactician halted halfway down the alley to the throne and bowed mechanically to the ancient figure seated there.  Beside him in the pulpit, Darkwill was flanked by his sons and bodyguards, as well as the other generals. 

                A rasping noise ground from inside Darkwill’s mask as he creaked upright, “General Swain.  It has come to my attention that you’ve been taking…certain liberties in Kalamanda.  Do you demur?”  He fixed Swain with a vicious glower. 

                “No sir, as the chaos is being carefully monitored by the League itself, I have felt it within my bounds, and my duty, as a League Champion to deal with the situation as I see fit.”  Swain replied calmly. 

                “Even without the consent of your superiors?”  Darkwill asked dangerously.

                “With all due respect,” Swain started without feeling a shred of respect, “yes, I do, sir.”

                “You forget your place, Swain,” Darkwill snarled.  “Your first loyalty is to your city-state, not the League of Legends.   Or do you now break all you have vowed?  Choose your words carefully, General”

                Swain restrained from a brash retort.  What did either of them know of loyalty?  Alliances were formed to manipulate…a passing phase in an overwhelming power struggle fueled by ambition and consumed with greed. 

                “I apologize for my insubordinate acts; however, I do not regret them.  Through my actions, certain conflict has been staved off and Noxus can still stake its rightful claim on Kalamanda’s riches.” 

                Darkwill made a disgruntled sound and seemed to be laboring over his decision beneath that implacable face.

                “Very well,”  He growled finally, “I will let this incident slip,” Kieran made a strangled noise in disbelief, “however, know that I will not be so lenient should you violate my command again,” Darkwill fixed a steely glare on Swain, “You are _not_ leader of Noxus.” 

                _Not yet,_ Swain thought.

                He was dismissed, and Swain departed with haste, all too eager to get out of this hellhole. He should have noted, though, Kieran’s vacant seat as he left the chamber. 

                Beatrice shot from his shoulder with a battle shriek and nearly clawed the eyes out of Darkwill’s youngest before Swain could call her off.  The demonic raven glided back to his shoulder, feathers ruffled and eyes ablaze. 

                Without preamble, Kieran bellowed, “I’m on to you Swain.  You’ve been far too successful and break far too many rules for my taste.  Why my father didn’t execute you back in the chamber is beyond me.” 

                “Perhaps that was because your father is persuaded by reason.”

                “Reason, bah!  Whatever you are up to, it will end badly,” Kieran snarled. 

                “For whom?” Swain queried.

                “I’ll see to it myself you never get a hold of the throne,” he thundered recklessly.

                “You think that’s what I’m after?” Swain mocked, evading the heedless youth’s prying. 

                “What do you know of the Black Rose?” Kieran asked abruptly. 

                Swain went cold – this boy was more intuitive than he had thought.  Mirthlessly the tactician jeered, “The Black Rose?  Is that what you gathered?  Why on earth would you think I would know anything of them?  You think the Black Rose will get me power?  Fool!  The Back Rose is nothing. It was destroyed over two decades ago by your father.  I myself was there at the final purge of the aristocracy.”  Swain finished tremulously. 

                His unexpected fervor left Kieran stunned. Swain took this as a chance to exit. 

                Kieran opened his mouth to speak, but Swain silenced him with a jab of his cane, “don’t challenge me, boy, it will be the last thing you ever do.” 

* * *

 

                The day for Garvin’s questioning neared, though time slid by at a snail’s pace.  Katarina could not stand the wait.  As one who lived for action, the extended piddling around with diplomatic matters drover her mad.  She wanted – needed – the Kalamanda incident resolved so she could focus entirely on finding her father.  Every day wasted his trail grew colder, and a part of her was beginning to lose hope she would ever find…

                Angrily the assassin banished the pitiful thoughts.  She was not – would not be – weak. 

                Katarina leaned over the balcony of her chamber and let her eyes wander over the gardens of the expansive du Couteau estate. 

                Had her father been at all involved in this mess?  Had he seen this turmoil coming?  He had been so secluded in his final weeks with them, it was impossible to decipher his motives, and yet, from a logical standpoint, it only made sense that whatever Marcus du Couteau had been up to was a part of the current political dilemma. Once again, Katarina was met with a dead end, stalemated in too many fragmented leads. 

                She returned in doors, weary and ready to turn in.  Before Katarina went to sleep, she pulled out her many knives and took inventory of them – unwilling to shake the augury that she would soon need them – when Talon dropped lightly onto the balcony.  He let himself in without casting so much as a glance at Katarina. 

                “Talon, you’re back,” she commented, “where were you?”

                “Nowhere,” he answered evasively.

                A frown fixated itself onto Katarina’s features, “why won’t you tell me anything?”  She demanded, knowing well she would not receive an answer.  When Talon hardly reacted she pried further, “what’s wrong with you?  Not that you’ve ever been open, but you haven’t been yourself these past weeks.  Is it about my father?”  Talon still did not respond beyond a shrug.

                Rage borne of frustration flooded the red-headed assassin, “You can’t keep everything bottled up inside you all the time!  Do you think this is easy on me either?  You’re not on your own anymore – you can open up to the people around you – to me!”  She bit her lip angrily, wishing she hadn’t said too much. 

                Talon gave her a look of contempt, “emotions are for the weak.  And it’s none of your business.”

                Katarina reeled for another outburst, but was cut off when Talon slipped away again.  She raged internally.  He was right, emotions were weaknesses – they were assassins, and sentimentality was not an afforded luxury. 

                Perhaps, deep down, they both knew having emotions was not the same as being weak.  It was harder to feel, it hurt more than shoving unwanted sentiment under a bitter shell.  Somehow they both could sense this inner vulnerability, though as Noxians they quelled feelings remorselessly. 

* * *

 

                LeBlanc had just finished having tea with Elise when a breathless Gervais burst through the door to her lair.

                “D-D-Darkwill – he-he’s l-leaving N-Noxus!”  He panted.

                “What?!”  LeBlanc stood up with such force her chair smashed against the wall behind it and her poor teacup finally did shatter in her grip.

                “It’s true, he took a guard and carriage and left just before dusk,” Gervais sagged against the doorframe.

                “Does Swain know about this?”  She demanded sharply.

                “Y-yes, I found him first.  He was just…”

                Both heads turned to the door as the familiar clacking of the general’s cane came into earshot, “I’m coming,” he barked, “I’m not as young as I used to be.”

                “Charming.”  LeBlanc said dryly, she sank back into her chair, “Darkwill leaving; this is unprecedented.”

                “That’s not all,” Gervais began skittishly.  As Swain came through the door the doorman gestured respectfully to the general to continue.

                “Garvin is dead,” Swain sighed emptily, “they found him in his cell yesterday.”

                LeBlanc sank deeper into her chair, “how?”  Her voice was hollow.

                “He was poisoned in jail.  Nyzer poison.”

                “Then it could have come from anywhere, or anyone – even Garvin.”

                “Precisely,” Swain fixed LeBlanc with a stern look, “I trust this was not your doing?”

                The deceiver held up the vial of poison – untouched.

                “Good.  I would have been rather _cross_ had you ruined our plans,” his understatement held an unspoken threat. 

                “Though that has never stopped either of us before,” LeBlanc muttered.  She looked up and motioned Swain to sit down.

                He limped over to the table and sighed, “LeBlanc, what have you done to your hand?”  She checked and found with a jolt the shattered teacup had made several lacerations in her right palm.  Swain made a _tsk_ ing sound and cradled her hand in his while pressing a cloth napkin on top to stem the bleeding. 

                LeBlanc murmured, “You’re getting blood all over my silk napkins.”

                “The napkins are replaceable, you are not.”

                She rolled her eyes upon hearing such a thing from Swain, but accepted the aid nonetheless. 

                Once the general had settle opposite LeBlanc, she poured him some tea with her good hand.

                “We are going to have to drastically rethink our plans,” she observed.

                “Not so drastically as you may think,” Swain pondered, taking a sip of his beverage.  “Garvin is a regrettable setback, but there are other ways of manipulating the chaos.  I do feel our great leader Darkwill has opened a grand opportunity.”

                “How so?”  LeBlanc tilted her head inquisitively.

                “Why do you think Darkwill left Noxus?”

                “To see to Kalamanda himself, perhaps?”

                “Yes, of course, but there’s something more, something bigger to have made him suddenly leave after over two decades,”  Swain took a sip of tea and announced, “I do believe Darkwill left because he feels as though his life is in danger.”


	7. Indite

Chapter 7

Indite

A growing sense of unease could only be matched with a sense of triumph – the several week journey of Boram Darkwill to Kalamanda had nearly reached its terminal.  The Grand General’s inner doubt had expected an ambush before he even departed from the gates of Noxus.  He knew well his people were not fond of him – as always it was better to be feared than loved.

                Even after he cleared the gates Darkwill had been certain one of his many foes would have struck – he had not brought a platoon of Raedsel Guards had he suspected otherwise.  But the days had turned into weeks, and each passing hour without incident bolstered the troops.  It seemed to prove the Noxian government had not faltered over time: the world would still bear witness to its terrifying power.

                The last leg of the journey still stretched before the caravan; they shouldered onward as the midsummer sun finally began to die, razing the horizon crimson and scarlet.  Darkwill watched the colors bleed into burgundy and purple, and filially to black.

                The hypnotic thunder of marching feet and arrestingly pristine natural beauty coupled with the uncanny haze that settled over the desolate landscape between Noxus and Kalamanda lulled Darkwill. 

                He never heard them coming.

                The carriage abruptly shuddered to a halt.  Darkwill snapped to attention and barked, “What’s going on?”

                “It appears we’ve been attacked,” the soldier to his left stated.

                “Impossible,” Darkwill muttered, “get the carriage moving!”

                His body guard obeyed, diving into the fray.  The sound of clashing steel echoed with strangled cries, from whom Darkwill couldn’t discern.  He rent the curtains at the front of the cab open and bellowed through the porthole to the driver, “keep moving…” he tapered off as bile filed his throat.  The driver was slumped forward into a pool of his own blood, his severed head lolling at his side.  Darkwill recoiled in time to see his bodyguard smash against the side window – his head snapped backwards, shattering the pane.  The guard’s lifeless body fell partially through; it was covered in lacerations.  Darkwill could see clearer now, the tide had not turned in his favor.  It was impossible – Raedsel Guards were amongst the most ruthless skilled killers in all of Valoran, and they were being bested by an ambush barely their size. 

                _How could this be?_ He thought, _who could have arranged this –_

                He didn’t have time to think.

                An assailant appeared suddenly and ripped the dead guard out of the window frame – he was masked like the rest.  The man leered viciously at the Noxian tyrant, “this has been a long time coming, hasn’t it, Darkwill?”

                He recognized that voice, but with death staring him in the face he couldn’t quite pinpoint…

                The assailant lashed out, gouging deep into the side of Darkwill’s armored mask.  Not allowing easy defeat, the general drew a dagger and lunged for the attacker’s chest. 

                Before it could hit home, a hand clasped over his wrist and crushed it into the jagged bits of glass sticking up from the frame.  Darkwill howled in pain as the shards ripped through the fabric of his sleeve and into his withered flesh.  The assailant wasted no time tearing open the door and roughly seized Darkwill. The Grand General was thrown to the ground.

                It was the end, lying there in the dirt.  Darkwill could feel it.  His guard had been massacred, against the odds, he had been thwarted…for the last time. All the will to fight vanished from his haggard form.  The assailant crouched over him and Darkwill met his eyes.

                “I suppose the ends really do justify the means,” he sneered.

                They were familiar, as was the voice, blazing with fire and frenzied triumph. 

                Leisurely, ceremoniously, the assailant took the general’s dagger and stabbed it into Darkwill’s throat to the hilt.  Blood pooled out around the wound and into the barren ground, but the assailant would not yield, not until he saw the life leave Darkwill’s eyes. A feeble gurgling noise escaped Darkwill’s lips as he held on, more sanguine fluid dripping from the corner of his mouth.  But doom could not be escaped, even after years of being kept alive through the use of necromancy and black magics…the untouchable tyrant of Noxus was still all too mortal. 

                As the talons of death closed in on Darkwill, he looked into those eyes one final time.

                He knew.

* * *

 

                Weeks earlier, shortly after Swain and LeBlanc’s meeting, the pair had set off to Kalamanda as well.  They had arrived several days sooner than Darkwill’s allotted time seeing as they weren’t toting around a small army on foot. 

                The day before Darkwill’s scheduled arrival, Swain prepared a rendezvous, an extra precaution to ensure the general’s safe arrival. 

                As the sun set, a deathly silence encased Kalamanda.  The Demacian forces were uncharacteristically quiet and Swain’s headquarters seemed devoid of life. 

                One might have wondered if they were even there at all.

                But time moves on, and day broke again.  The rendezvous party departed to meet Darkwill headed by Captain Dorian Rancor.  He and his men marched stiffly to the village limits and waited. 

                Nearly a half hour passed and the two camps had begun to stir, but they were the only signs of life.  No one had arrived yet.  Captain Rancor wondered if perhaps the caravan had been held up by a broken axel or wheel, and that this was a reasonable explanation for Darkwill’s tardiness.  As such, he ordered his men to march out on the road to meet the Grand General part way.  The men fell in stride but again could see no trace of the caravan across the barren land. 

                Until.

                Until a series of spine-tingling screeches caught the soldier’s attention.  They marched ahead farther as a chilling sight overtook the horizon.  Hundreds of black feathered forms spiraled and writhed in the distance, their eerie and cacophonous voices filling the morning air with dissonance; a macabre symphony from the omens of death. 

                Captain Rancor signaled his men to pick up pace.  Further investigation of the scene realized the captain’s worst fear: the carrion crows had indeed been flocking to Grand General Boram Darkwill’s entourage, or rather the carnage thereof.  The entire platoon had been wiped flat, and the bodies, what was left of them, were fairly long dead, leading Captain Rancor to believe the ambush had occurred in the night.

                The air was rank with the stench of decay.  Most all the soldiers gagged and a few retched despite their strict training.  The Captain himself felt quite nauseated when he ordered, “search for survivors.”  It was spoken with half-hearted gloom; it was painfully obvious none had survived. 

                As the soldiers picked their way through the ranks of the dead, a private approached Rancor.

                “How…?”  He faltered.

                “It had to be an ambush…a big one.  No one can go after Raedsel Guards half-assed,” Rancor shook his head.

                “Is it possible Darkwill could have…?”

                Just then two infantry men approached Rancor, looking grim.  “Sir,” one muttered, “there’s something you need to see.”

                In a trance-like state the four walked to bear witness to a scene so impossible it seemed unreal.

                  The insurmountable Boram Darkwill lay dead at their feet, scarred helmet askew, head thrown back, and a dagger in his throat.

                “We have to tell General Swain,” Rancor finally broke the silence. 

                One of the infantrymen nodded, “Sir, we’ve also noted there are no traces of the attacking force; the only dead are Raedsel, and no weapons or evidence of sort was left by the assailants.”

                “What about Darkwill’s murder weapon?”  The private implored, crouching down beside the corpse.  He pulled up the dagger and sighed, “It’s his own dagger.  See the family seal etched into it?” 

                Rancor took the dagger from him. “Whoever perpetuated this crime will pay,” the private declared.

                The Captain snorted, “the culprit is likely closer than you may think,” he cursed under his breath, “all this time a massive Demacian force has been sitting idle, itching to strike.”

                “How can you be sure?”

                “All the wounds on the soldiers are physical, characteristic of Demacian ranks. Magic wounds would have been less…gruesome.”

                The private nodded, “I don’t know how they could have attacked without our forces being alerted, but you’re right.  A sizeable force of our greatest enemy right next door, no other military could have destroyed a platoon with such efficiency.”

                Rancor surveyed the scene, “start organizing the bodies by rank, I’ll send carts so they can be transported to the proper burial grounds,” he ordered and the men set about the grim task.

                Dorian Rancor addressed the private, “In the mean time, I’d best inform General Swain.”

* * *

 

                A gentle nudge roused Swain and he raised his head groggily, temples pounding with exhaustion.  LeBlanc stood by the side of his cot wearing a military uniform, the helmet tucked in the crook of her arm.

                “Your Captain needs to speak with you.”

                “Tell him it can wait.”

                She nudged him again, “from what he said, it can’t.”

                Swain cursed and eased himself into a sitting position, dark circles rimmed his eyes.

                “Didn’t sleep well either?”  LeBlanc commented, though she looked vibrant as ever, “you look terrible.”

                The general grunted and pulled a simple robe right over his bed clothes.  That was followed with his chest and shoulder plates carelessly slung over top.  LeBlanc came to his aid in tightening the straps.  Swain pulled his mask over his exhausted features and asked, “Acceptable?”

                “For now.  And for the record, I’m officially your bodyguard.”  She put the helmet on and motioned Swain, “Shall we?” she asked, her voice warped down to the pitch of a man’s voice.

                Swain leaned heavily on his cane, feeling a great deal stiffer than usual.

                At the door of his tent, Captain Rancor paced anxiously, halting promptly at the sight of his commanding officer.  The middle aged man had salt and pepper hair and a bit of stubble offset with a pair of darting blue eyes; he was one of the best and most loyal men currently serving under Swain.

                “My apologies, sir, I didn’t mean to wake you-”

                “Save the pleasantries,” Swain interrupted, “it is of no consequence.  What do you have to say?” 

                The Captain looked greatly troubled, wringing out his hands and sucking in a deep breath.  But Noxians are not ones for preamble, so Rancor blurted the news plain, “Boram Darkwill is dead.”

                Slight surprise registered on Swain’s face, but he kept his characteristic implacable expression even in the wake of such tremendous news.

                “My men and I found his caravan obliterated not far from the city gates.  It looks to me they were ambushed in the dead of night by Demacian forces.”

                “Demacian, you say?  What makes you think that?”

                “The wounds are physical, and they are the closest of our foes to the place of ambush…and no one else could have snuck up on or taken on Raedsel guards.”

                Swain nodded in agreement, “Then it undoubtedly had to be Demacia.  Captain, what is being done with the bodies?”

                “I’m having my men cart them here for burial presently.”

                “Have the other troops build funeral pyres, these valiant men must be given a proper send off.”

                “Sir, in lieu of Darkwill’s demise, will you be returning to Noxus?”

                “No, my presence is needed here.  If Demacia did assassinate Darkwill, of which I have no doubt, I must stay to make sure they are punished for their heinous crimes.”

                “Yes, sir,” he bowed and was dismissed.

* * *

 

                The last boughs of dried rushes were heaped onto the central pyre, the tallest of many, this one bearing General Darkwill’s body.  Swain’s troops stood back in uniform lines after handing the tactician a torch.  Swain approached the head pyre, he was unwilling to feel anything but satisfaction at the sight of the corpse before him. 

                At his shoulder, Beatrice leaned forward hungrily, eyes glinting.

                “No girl, not for you,” Swain scolded, “It’s time we put Boram Darkwill to rest, once and for all.”

                Swain lit the pyre, the other soldiers followed suit in tossing torches onto the other mounds until all were ablaze.  The sickly sweet, acrid scent of burning flesh filled the evening air, choking out the sky with billowing clouds of smoke. 

                The tactician stood poised with his cane watching the hungry flames lick away at the fallen soldiers.  He and his guard kept a quiet vigil until only ashes remained.  When the fires burned low, Swain ordered them to be doused and the ashes to be scattered. 

                They departed back to their camp in Kalamanda when the last lights of day cut a brilliant edge over top the magnificent azure mountains in the distance.  Before the group disbanded, Swain announced, “I explicitly forbid any of you or your subordinates to engage with Demacian troops.”  There was evident discontent at this discourse, “Demacia will face justice under the League in good time.”

                “Bah!  The League is rubbish!”  A brave lieutenant spoke up, “we must show those gallivanting brats true _Noxian_ justice!”  Several commanders murmured in agreement.

                Swain demurred harshly, “Lieutenant, I require that you abstain from making belligerent and potentially injurious remarks so long as the League is still a potent and influential presence.”

                Greatly diminished, the lieutenant backed down. 

                “At this dark moment of turmoil and uncertainty, we must not lose our unity, or faith in one another, or we shall certainly crumble.  We have all come too far, suffered for too long, to be torn apart.  Keep faith, my brethren, and rally to me, to the spirit of Noxus…for even at its most withered state, Noxus is feared.  And as a phoenix rises from the flames, we cannot be surmounted, not by any outer foe.  But we must not be reckless, lest inner strife drive a rift into our spirits.  Band together, weather this storm, Noxus will not falter, nay it will bloom again in glory.”

                The officers were taken aback by Swain’s impromptu speech, but they murmured in agreement, saluting their general and effectively confirming their fealty.  The group branched off, returning to their respective tents.  Caption Rancor approached Swain.

                “Sir, I was just confronted by a Journal of Justice reporter, she heard the news of Darkwill’s assassination and wishes for a formal statement.”

                “What did you tell her?” Swain demanded, the Journal reporter instantly putting him in a sour mood.

                “I told her to speak to you.”

                “Good man, I’ll speak with her presently.” 

                He approached the woman, who quickly bowed.  She looked uneasily at the general, “I’m reporting on behalf of Quinton Groat for Kalamanda, may I get your statement on this latest turn of events?”

                “Yes,” Swain briefly explained Darkwill’s journey, his death, the massacred platoon, and Demacia’s suspected perpetuation of the atrocity.  He finished gravely but with a hint of venom in his voice, “this is a clear declaration of war.” 

                The reporter looked a bit pale, but finished scrawling her notes, thanking Swain in the process.  She straightened, “a message has been sent to King Jarvan III in Demacia, the League is attempting to calm public outburst until he returns with a definitive answer to the matter.  In the meantime, I’ve been asked to beg no military action is taken, we’ve come too far for peace to…” She trailed off, seeming to remember who she spoke to.  “My apologies.  A similar message has been relayed to the Demacian and allied camps.  Thank you for your cooperation, General Swain.”

                He nodded, “The communication is appreciated, is that all?”

                “Yes.”  She bobbed her head and turned heel to leave, not masking at all how eager she was to get away.

* * *

 

                Jarvan III’s statement arrived mere days later.  A messenger passed on the letter while Swain was reading a note from Darius.  The general’s note detailed the situation back home.  Nothing had erupted presently, but tensions – and stakes – were high.  The remaining high command had managed to hold together some semblance of peace for the time being, but the grand general’s vacant seat remained a foreboding pinnacle.  One general that had attempted to claim the position was found back-stabbed with a poisoned blade the next morning in his house.  Darius had asserted that the command look to Swain for guidance until anything conclusive took place, though he was denounced by Kieran.  The insolent snot had made it clear he wanted the throne.  His vile hubris gave him the self-ordained right to the Grand Generals’ seat.  Already he was rallying support, and his reputation as a notoriously skilled duelist had so far kept him a living and prominent candidate.  Swain knew well enough to be wary of the boy, though a fool most all the time, he was still very much so a dangerous adversary. 

                Swain pushed the rabble over succession to the back of his mind, for now he needed to focus on the matters in Kalamanda.  He looked over Jarvan III’s statement which read:

                _This is a horrific tragedy.  it’s no secret that Demacian and Noxian forces have opposed each other on numerous occasions but General Darkwill and I were able, after so much conflict, to put our rivalries aside for the greater good.  I did not order the attack.  I would never do anything to threaten the peace we have forged.  I am willing to cooperate in anyway necessary to prove the truth of these claims._

“So…” Swain voice aloud though he was alone in his tent, “thing king wishes to cooperate, to help me get to the bottom of this matter.  Any reasonable man would agree whole-heartedly,” Swain folded his hands on his desk, “alas, I am sick of being reasonable.  It was the king who delayed Garvin’s questioning, leading ultimately to his death, which severely injured my plans.  Perhaps if Garvin had lived and this conflict had not come as far as it has…then I’d be inclined to accept this rational request.  But not anymore.  Pity, King Jarvan III, plans change.”   

                The tactician called his officers together and relayed the king’s message.

                Without a doubt in his mind, Swain announced, “I have, however, opted to refuse any agreement resulting in a cooperative effort.  What’s done is done.”

                The officers agreed, buzzing with anticipation.  Captain Rancor fetched the messenger who nervously accepted the reply note.  He scampered back to Demacia, not fully aware of the metaphorical bombshell he carried with him. 

                The rest parted to make preparations; Swain and Rancor returned to the general’s tent.

                “Are you sure it is wise to refuse the king’s offer?”  Rancor asked hesitantly. 

                The general eased himself into his chair before answering, “I am tired of dealing with the day to day monotony of dry and contrite diplomacy.  For now, Noxus stands apart from the rest.  While Valoran toils in vain peace efforts, we will not take part in their futile attempts to please everyone.”

                “Yes sir,” he stood to leave.

                “And Captain, if any diplomat or representative of the sort comes to hound me, tell them I have no intention of taking audience with them.  That is all.”

* * *

 

                Swain knew his refusal would not bode well with the Demacians, but what could they do?  They were the ones under fire now. 

                The afternoon had been a flurry of activity as the final group of brave residents was evacuated – Mayor Anson Ridely being among them.  The civilians were gone.  There was nothing to hold back war.

                The general milled around his tent, tidying up the fourth room that had been annexed to it.  Swain requested an audience chamber be added (ironic, seeing as he no longer wished to be bothered by visitors), but really he just needed an extra room with a couch – doubled a futon – so LeBlanc would have a place to stay.

                The deceiver in question had been missing for quite some time.  Though it wasn’t Swain’s duty to keep track of her comings and goings, he did wonder what mischief she may be up to. 

                He didn’t have to wait long to find out.  A soldier briskly marched into the tent without any of the military finesse he’d come to expect from his men. 

                “Good afternoon, LeBlanc,” he greeted.

                “How could you tell?”  She asked, removing the helmet and shaking out her inky purple hair.  The illusion faded off until she wore only her standard, scanty garb. 

                “None of my men would have dared to barge in like that,” Swain chortled.

                “Ah,” she plopped onto the futon without her usual lady-like grace, looking decidedly irritated.

                Swain took a seat beside her, “dare I ask what has vexed you?”

                She snorted, “Allow me to list my grievances; first off, a Journal of Justice writer somehow found me…Head Summoner Ralston Farnsley.  He presented me with a note from an ‘admirer’.  Though I’ve explicitly ordered in the past not to be trifled with, shall I call it, ‘fan mail’.  But he insisted and gave me an oddly punctuated note.  I nearly passed it off as rubbish, but for the sake of it, I grouped the capitalized words and found this message:

‘Beware judgment records curious.  Might see Black Rose threat – Vayne’”

“Vayne?” The tactician asked incredulously, “the League’s own vigilante has your cult on her radar.”

“Irritable wretch.  Though I wouldn’t’ mind a chance to kill her.  True to my sporting manner,” her voice was peppered with sarcasm, “I crafted another encoded note for the Night Hunter to boggle over a bit.  It took me so long to think of a sensible encryption I am fairly certain it drove dear Farnsley mad.  Perhaps that will deter him from troubling me next time.” 

Swain dipped his head in agreement, “I wouldn’t take Vayne’s threat lightly…she’s crafty, don’t underestimate her prowess.”

LeBlanc snorted, “of course not, as soon as the next part of the plan is put into motion, I’m heading straight back to Noxus.  I won’t let her get anywhere close to the Black Rose.”

“I could increase the border security to deter Vayne longer,” Swain offered reasonably.

“I don’t need _your_ help to protect _my_ people,” LeBlanc said sharply. 

Their eyes met, red on gold, but this time Swain backed down first, knowing this was not a battle he could win.

“Very well.”

The deceiver sank back into the futon and rubbed her temples, “my second major grievance is being surrounded by Demacians for the better part of the last two days.  I was doing some intel work in their military camp,” she added before Swain could interject, “they are an irritating lot, I suppose most soldiers are, but these especially.  The uniforms are stifling and I dare say if I hear another chipper query about ‘this weather we’ve been having’, I should surely be driven to murder.”

Swain suppressed a chuckle, “did you find anything of interest?”

“Yes, actually,” her eyes flashed deviously, “you were correct in your suspicions that Jarvan IV is not in Kalamanda.  Apparently he took a short trip and should return ‘soon’.  Meaning…”

“It’s time we begin the next phase,” Swain finished viciously.  


	8. Paroxysm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was one of my favorites to write :')

Chapter 8

Paroxysm

Jarvan IV returned to Kalamanda two days later, causing a stir amongst the soldiers.  He arrived accompanied only by two guards – considered strange by most who knew the prince to be exceedingly arrogant, especially when it came to presentation.  Colonel Quint Skelly, head of a regiment of the King’s Dragoon’s approached the prince curiously.

                “Sir, my apologies, we were not expecting you, we could have made sure you were well received.”

                “At ease, Colonel,” Jarvan IV ordered, “I purposely avoided notice and kept a small escort.  After what happened to that Noxian…it is clear important figures as myself are not safe.” 

                “I see, and sir, if I may, your father will be wondering where you went.”

                “It is not your concern,” Jarvan IV said stiffly, “my father will be informed when needed.”

                The colonel pried no further, Jarvan IV dismissed him and began to meander towards his tent.  His guards flanked the entrance and the prince disappeared within.  The tent’s austere setting was untouched:  A military cot to the side with a small dresser beside it.  Atop the dresser a dull shaving mirror, water basin, several razors, and a hand towel lay neatly.  Techmergical lantern light cast a dim halo on top of a folding writing desk.  The utilitarian setting was completed with a trunk in the corner, most likely the carrier of any other necessities the crown prince would need. 

                Jarvan IV hunkered down at his desk, catching a glimpse of reflection in the shaving mirror.  Though blurry and distorted, the mirror had a different story to tell.  Pale features, a tapered jaw, gold eyes and painted lips all stared mockingly back at the prince.

                “Well, that was easier than I thought,” he announced.  An unusually devious smile played on his mouth. 

“Jarvan IV”, nay, the deceiver, had thought her first day masquerading as the Demacian crown prince would have encountered a hitch.  But the troops flocked to their leader with unquestionable loyalty, allowing LeBlanc to slip in without suspicion.  It almost aggravated her how daft the men were, despite how much their naivety was a boon to her cover. 

                LeBlanc sighed and removed the helmet, shaking out her hair until it returned to its glossy purple color.  The two days she had spend staking out the Demacian camp not only yielded knowledge of the prince’s absence, but valuable information of its inner workings.  By impersonating soldiers of different regiments and ranks, LeBlanc was able to analyze their customs, memorize the names and faces of officers, and get a good idea of how Jarvan IV interacted with his troops.  The whole process had been all too easy – Jarvan IV had been secluded and seldom came out before he left – so if he acted likewise now, no one would be the wiser. 

                But his sudden leaving and the curious behavior beforehand raised another question – and concern – what had caused the prince to take up and go in a time of crisis?  Clearly this little excursion wasn’t common knowledge to his father. 

                LeBlanc looked back at the mirror, “Aww, little baby Jarvan is growing up,” she cackled. 

                “But what he might do in self-righteousness is a problem,” she murmured in a much less wicked manner. 

                Monitoring the prince’s every move at the moment wasn’t predominant or practical.   Still, LeBlanc knew it was necessary to report that and her successful infiltration to Swain.  _Report_ she thought sardonically, as if _I_ were his subordinate.  He used to serve _me._   While discontented thoughts swirled in her sub-conscience, she filled up the basin with water, creating a make-shift scrying pool.  Muttering an incantation, she watched the pool begin to glow blue, shimmering with incandescence until a relatively clear image of Swain’s makeshift study rippled over the placid water.  The edges of the image warped back – an effect of looking through a crystal sphere on the other end. 

                “Swain, are you there?” She articulated.

                She had to repeat herself several times before the tactician grew aware of her summons.  He limped into the picture, reaching out with both hands to move the crystal ball to his portable desk. 

                “I was wondering when you would call,” he intoned, his voice sounded murky in the poor clarity of the water.

                “Yes, of course,” she replied offhandedly, “but as you can see, I’m in and not a qualm or question to be heard.”

                “Excellent, when can we proceed?” 

                “I will need a day or two to perfect my illusions and the spells to mimic his fighting style.”

                “Noted, but make haste,” Swain ordered, “We must consider the possibility of Jarvan IV returning.”

                “That would be a bit, shall I say, awkward?”  LeBlanc said humorously, though it clearly wasn’t a laughing matter.  “If he would indeed return, I have little fear of being caught.  I’ve evaded battalions of both Noxians and Demacians simultaneously.”

                “I do not doubt your ability,” Swain said calmly, “but we’ve come too far to be thwarted by something so simple.”

                “I understand.  On the eve of the day after tomorrow, I will take my two guards and go on a patrol.”

                “Body-guards, as in, Black Rose agents?”

                “Who else?  I’ll use that premise to meet with you – then we can decide the place of conflagration.”

                “Very well,” Swain agreed, “I will see you later, then.”  Before cutting the connection, the general’s face wrinkled in disgust, “I’ll be pleased when I no longer have to see you wear that abhorrent armor.”

                LeBlanc snorted knowingly as the water in the basin faded back to clear.  Deciding there was no practical reason to continue wearing said armor for the rest of the afternoon, the deceiver tried her hand at removing it.  She stood; wobbling a bit from being unaccustomed to her increased stature, and took a seat on the edge of the cot.  The armor LeBlanc wore was not real.  It was another illusion, but this one was not a mere trick of optics, but an illusion so powerful it held dimension, it was solid and functional, and so long as onlookers thought it to be true, the armor was just as real as the cot LeBlanc sat upon. 

                Unfortunately, with substance and accuracy came the difficulty of removing needlessly complicated armor.  Each piece was interconnected with at least two others, effective when it came to stability and keeping the armor essential one fluid being, just like the wearer.  But in LeBlanc’s eyes, it was simply more buckles and ties than she ever wanted to look at again. Fortunately, in a couple days she wouldn’t have to worry about impersonating Jarvan IV any more.  She and Swain would orchestrate the perfect deception, the grand illusion.  Yet in a way, through that deceit, an even greater subterfuge would be lifted: the illusion of peace keeping forces at bay in Kalamanda.  Both sides knew what they wanted – to eliminate their opponent and claim the ultimate prize and glory.  How they had deluded themselves into thinking a clash would not be inevitable.  In goodtime, the veil of deceit would be lifted and reveal the ugly truth that lay beneath. 

* * *

 

Garen Crownguard led a dispatch of the Dauntless Vanguard into Kalamanda the next morning.  To disheartened troops, the sight of the imposing champion served to majorly boost morale.  With the Might of Demacia on their side, the idea of a "steel and slugs" conflict didn't seem as bad an option.  Garen immediately sought out Jarvan IV, his commanding officer. He was surprised to find the prince still in his tent; he'd known Jarvan to be an early riser, eager to train with his troops.  His initial concern about his childhood friend was dampened when he implored of Colonel Skelly, who assured Garen that Jarvan IV was probably exhausted still from his journey.  Though Garen knew nothing of it, he took the news in stride, as only the hulking vanguard could.

Though she was actually awake, LeBlanc had fended off prying visitors by giving the reasonable excuse to Colonel Skelly that she, Jarvan IV was still recovering from his trip.  In reality she'd been practicing the illusions necessary for Jarvan IV's fighting style.  The lance and shield were simple and all, but it was the cataclysm that was the kingpin.  If that failed... She snorted.  It would not fail.  However, her practice was cut short when the head of the Dauntless Vanguard arrived.  LeBlanc regarded his impromptu appearance as a worst-case scenario.  If anyone was close to Jarvan IV, it was Garen (though in her mind she had suspicions about that half-dragon Shyvana...)  His presence in the camp was one she could not avoid, her point was realized when he appeared outside the tent moments later.

"Jarvan IV, are you in there."  He asked heartily. 

LeBlanc quickly disguised herself, "Of course, would my men lead you wrong?"  He rose and peeked outside at the massive knight. 

"Ha!  They wouldn't dare, my friend," Garen chuckled, ", or do I still have to address you as 'your highness'?"

"Ah, so long as it's not in front of my troops, you may, old friend."  Jarvan IV exited the tent.

Garen clapped him on the back, "It's been too long!  Tell me, what have you been up to?"

LeBlanc inwardly cursed, of course the oaf would know, or at least want to know Jarvan IV's ins and outs.  But, she was Prince Jarvan IV, and for now, her - his - word was law.  "My journey was eventful to say the least, but now is not the time."  he replied sternly.

Garen dipped his head, conceding for now, but LeBlanc could tell he wasn't pleased with being brushed off by his best friend.  Still optimistic, however, the vanguard reasonably suggested, "sir, there is a training exercise about to begin, would you be interested in taking part?" 

"I would," Jarvan IV hefted his lance and marched ahead of Garen. 

He followed, feeling a tad disappointed in Jarvan's brusque behavior.  Though they had at one point been inseparable, ever since Jarvan IV had nearly died at the hands of Noxian forces, he hadn't quite been himself. He'd known horrors, from capture and his endeavors thereafter.  Even though in time he'd lost some of his hardened exterior- to the point that sometimes, lights of his former self would shine through.  But not now.  Garen knew him well enough to see when the haunts and shadows from the past troubled him more than usual.

The pair entered the makeshift training arena, crude zig-zag fences outlining a rough circular patch of bare ground.  The men already in battle paused at the sight of their two most fearsome commanders to salute.  Jarvan signaled them to stand down. 

"Your highness," an infantryman bowed, "we were just practicing some hand to hand combat should the Noxians attack."

"I see."

"Was there something in particular you wished to see improved upon?" he ventured.

"Yes, actually. Breaking through the standard Noxian phalanx formation is difficult even for trained soldiers.  We Demacians have a similar technique, but unless one line is broken, the fighting gets stale and frustrating.  We will set up in two groups, both with shields and attempt to break each other's lines.  A dummy will be placed at either end of the area; it represents the commanding officer.  To truly crush the Noxians, we must first demolish their men in charge."

Garen was taken aback by his furor, and the suggestion of targeting officers, it was one of the most un-chivalrous tactics in warfare.  Effective as such a plan may be, the vanguard was growing increasingly concerned for Jarvan.  He feared his hatred of Noxus would cause him to do something dishonorable.             

The men divided into teams, Jarvan IV and Garen being on opposite sides for obvious reasons.  They set up their shields - wooden, for the sake of safety - and prepared to charge.  Both sides engaged with cries of DEMACIA.  For minutes, they struggled to penetrate each other's shield barriers with little avail.  LeBlanc began to grow tired of the game and ordered the men to charge with their wooden swords as pikes.  In the clash that followed, Jarvan IV managed to kick down the shield of a scrawny infantryman; breaking the cornerstone.  With a cry, Jarvan IV's side surged through, dividing off into several hand-to-hand scuffles.  Not surprisingly, Garen faced his friend and rival.  He bellowed a cry and whirled with his feeble weapon - still looking just as ferocious as with a true weapon.  To his shock, rather than bashing him upfront, Jarvan IV feinted, side-stepping the tornado hurdling at him. 

"Too slow," Jarvan IV taunted; uncharacteristic, Garen thought, Jarvan IV wasn't usually the one for combat-banter, unless he was delivering the final blow. 

Garen charged again, this time not giving Jarvan IV a chance to dodge.  He swung his sword down with such force Jarvan IV was momentarily unable to counteract.  Growling, the prince lashed out his wood lance, which Garen narrowly avoided.  He noted neither side was making much headway, almost as though they were waiting for their respective leaders to make a decisive move.  LeBlanc was growing impatient with this fight - despite all her preparations, melee fighting was still uncomfortable as hell and she couldn't stand the thought of losing to the idiotic vanguard.  Sweat had begun to form in beads on her forehead, trickling into her eyes and down the back of her neck; soaking the prince's coarse hair.  She gritted her teeth and let loose her shield.  Garen, who had been in the process doing his Judgment, stumbled in the vicinity of the shield, leaving an opening.  Jarvan IV cast his flag beside Garen, latching onto it a moment later with the wood lance before pummeling into the vanguard.  The two grappled blindly in a flurry of fists and kicks until Jarvan IV managed to throw off Garen by dropping his shoulder and skillfully making use of the ridiculous shoulder pads of his armor.  Garen successfully dispatched for the moment, Jarvan IV had a straight shot to the "commanding officer" dummy.  He bellowed a rallying cry, "Demacia, now and forever!" His troops roared in agreement and fought with new vigor.  Despite how simply disgusting the words had felt rolling off her tongue; LeBlanc was rather enjoying the fervor in which the men treated a simple training exercise.  Casting aside her brief philosophical thoughts, LeBlanc turned her attention back to the task at hand.  Before Garen could right himself, Jarvan IV hurdled to the dummy, lifting it with one hand, he contemplated running the old flour sack through.  But then another, deliciously wicked thought crossed Jarvan IV's twisted mind.  "For the King!" He roared and tore a crater in the ground with his cataclysm.  The volcanic earth smoldered and rumbled, rising around him in his own personal arena.  Now it would be finished.  The prince flung his lance forward into the dummy, splicing open the woven fabric.  Corn husks and sand poured from the gaping hole, and for a sick moment LeBlanc could only picture this wretched scene as being the one the exemplar always dreamed of: the moment where he smote Swain once and for all. 

Breaking through the wall of LeBlanc's inner feelings came the sound of clapping.  She looked around her, the displaced earth shifting back into place, to see all the soldiers applauding. 

"Congratulations, sir," Garen clapped him on the back, again, "impressive as always."

"Thank you," Jarvan IV said cordially. He gazed around at the circle of expectant faces, "I must be going now, there is much to be done. Stay vigilant my comrades, Demacia will not fall asunder."  LeBlanc double-checked to make sure her annoyingly necessary speech was sufficient and quickly turned to leave.  Garen followed, much to her increasing irritation, what was this man?  A giant puppy?  She inwardly seethed.

"Yes?"  Jarvan IV addressed Garen a bit more shortly than he meant to. 

"I just wanted to make sure you were doing all right." he started.

"I am."  Jarvan IV snipped, more than ready to be rid of him.

"Alright then, I'll make sure my vanguard is in good shape.  We stand ready for any disturbance."  Garen saluted.

"I'm sure you will be." Jarvan IV replied shortly.  He entered his tent; cutting the conversation short.  

Left alone outside, Garen shook his head; Jarvan IV got like this when he was over-stressed.  It was killing him not being able to take action against the heinous accusations the Noxians had been making against Demacia, and though the League had promised Noxus would cooperate in keeping a truce, well, needless to say neither Garen nor Jarvan IV trusted their word.

Inside the tent, LeBlanc tore off the helmet, feeling disgusting, like...

...like a sweaty thirty-some year old man.  She wrinkled her nose, _simply repulsive_. With a sigh, she filled up the wash basin and cleaned up a bit.  Demacians had this particular knack of making her irritable.  Perhaps it was the simpleness of the soldiers, or the ever-trailing, ever-chipper vanguard that drove her mad.  There was no finesse, no elegance to their style.  Although, she though as she toweled off her face, thus far no one had asked her about the weather.  It was a small victory, if anything.  

Though not one to wish away the hours, LeBlanc found herself doing just that.  Dinner was not for some time, which meant she had awhile to do a bit more snooping before making one last mandatory appearance.  Beyond that, she was certain she could concoct some excuse to keep prying eyes away.

Having noticed that the men dressed casually for meals, even Garen, she removed the armor, finding solace in the thought she would only have to wear it one or two more times.  This time she felt no interest whatsoever in going through the trouble of unbuckling each piece, and simply let the illusion become malleable and fold off her body like paper.  She then remolded it solid in the corner by the trunk, for a touch of realism and to let the rancid material air out. 

Ransacking the few items in the tent took almost no time and in minutes LeBlanc was surrounded in a heap of mostly useless material.  Wherever Jarvan IV had gone, he'd taken most of his sensitive documents with him.  She did however find a list of all the regiments dispatched to Kalamanda, a useful bit of intel for Swain.  Aside from that and a couple war-maps, the prince had nothing of interest.  No journal, no secret love notes to Shyvana, and only a one pair of Tibbers-patterned boxers.  LeBlanc was terribly disappointed, and worse the whole process of digging through the prince's belongings had taken less than an hour.  Though the time she had left could preferably be used to put everything back with painstaking detail.  It needed to look as close to how it had been as possible.  The deceiver hadn't a clue precisely how mindful of his possessions Jarvan IV was, but it was imperative she leave no trace, lest the prince do even more prying, and come to suspect her.  Not that she really expected him to be astute enough to get that far.

Once everything had been folded, filed, and stowed away, LeBlanc put on a pair of actual loose breeches and a tunic, feeling a bit odd in wearing the prince's garments, but also quite comfortable in the airy material, no matter how rough and coarse it was. Dinner went smoothly; she even conversed with Garen, dropping her sour mood from earlier.  Mostly, he just let Garen awe the other officers with daring tales of their childhood, only adding in his own little quips when prompted. 

When the camp fires burned low and Garen finally ran out of tales for the evening, the officers parted ways and Jarvan IV bid Garen good night, retiring himself thereafter. 

Once nearly everyone besides the watchmen in the camp were asleep, LeBlanc once again filled the shaving basin to scry on Swain.  The tactician answered almost immediately.

"Ah, there you are," he greeted.

"Yes, yes, you really have no idea how good it is to hear your voice," LeBlanc sighed, feeling relieved, "I found a bit of information, nothing monumental, just a dispatch list if you would be so kind in copying it." 

Swain pulled out a pen and paper, and LeBlanc rattled off the divisions including commanding officers and approximate numbers. 

"They've been discreet in bringing troops," he observed, "There are a few more men than I would have liked, and having Garen as one of them is a regrettable setback, though I'm certain they'll be no match for my men." 

"Nor will they be able to match your cunning," a grin curled the edges of her lips, "I'd better be going, before anyone gets suspicious."

"Until tomorrow, milady," Swain bid farewell and cut the connection. 

LeBlanc re-disguised herself and flopped onto the cot, grumbling to herself that it had not gotten any less uncomfortable during the course of the day.  She shut her eyes and scratched her chin, registering the unfamiliar texture of stubble that had sprouted during the day.  _I suppose shaving will be necessary.  Or not._   LeBlanc rolled her eyes and dissolved it away.  Sleep soon found her, though it was restless. 

The next day LeBlanc awoke and donned the prince's armor with undue energy, going through the motions of manually putting it on; a sort of ritual, in her mind, to prepare for the battle yet to come.  She then drew together her "body guards", two of her finest Black Rose agents: Lilith, a strong headed brunette with a killer instinct who had a high likelihood of living up to the dark lore of her name, and Damien, a reserved blonde with a history in the circus, he had uncanny acrobatic abilities as well as a knack for pick pocketing and leaving no survivors. 

"When the time comes," she ordered, "I will take the two of you and we'll be returning to the Noxian camp briefly to alert Swain, you two will stay with me and we'll conduct a border patrol.  After that, well, I suppose you two can use your twisted imaginations for that.  Lilith grinned viciously at the prospect, while Damien made a rather disgruntled face. 

"I still don't like the idea of trusting that general."

"Excuse me?" LeBlanc asked dangerously.

Damien decided to tread lightly, "It's just... you yourself have spoken of his traitorous past, how can we trust him?"

"Ha! Trust; are you really still fool enough to believe in that?  Swain will not betray me now because I have the means to get him what he wants, and reciprocally he can do the same for me.  Now is not the time to doubt me, Damien.  You may be high in the ranks of the Black Rose, but always remember, it is you who are expendable." 

Humiliated, the young man nodded.  Even Lilith kept her mockery to herself, knowing the same fate applied to her as well. 

Jarvan IV and his entourage left the camp without much undue inquiry, Garen of course requested to accompany the prince, but only a bit of dissuading was needed to turn the vanguard away.  Their walk to the Noxian camp took almost no time, once again making LeBlanc wonder how on earth the two had not yet come to clash.

LeBlanc peeked open the tent door to find Swain in the process of putting the finishing touches on his armor.  He noticed her, and his face began to transform, though not into the expression she expected…

* * *

 

                The rational part of Swain’s mind told him there was no conceivable way Jarvan IV would be walking into his tent.  But his eyes did not lie.  And for once hate outshone logic; indescribable ire manifesting itself into tormenting fire in his left hand…

* * *

 

                LeBlanc had trouble processing the image set before her.  Swain appeared to be, he was going to…attack her?!  She glanced down the length of her body, realizing in horror what she was wearing, or rather, _who_ she was.  Gaudy gold and brown armor still cloaked her person.  Thinking fast, she leapt forwards, the illusion dissolving off of her body like mist, and grasped Swain’s wrists in a desperate attempt to quell his fury.  His eyes went wide, countless emotions playing in the stormy red depths.  The fire at his hand died, and for heart pounding moments neither could move.  The murky rage on Swain’s visage faded, replaced by a hollow look of…

                …fear.

                He was the first to speak,

                “I could have killed you.”

                LeBlanc nodded, once, twice.  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice shaking, “I-”

A tortured look ravaged Swain’s features, “It’s not-”  He slid out of LeBlanc’s grip and place his hands on her waist comfortingly; a gesture so unfamiliar…and yet so completely right it hurt. 

But LeBlanc tensed at his touch and pulled away.  She couldn’t’ let herself cave in, to melt into his embrace again, though she had done just that so many times in the past…  It hurt him, she knew, how she pushed him away, but, she just couldn’t bear how it felt the way his hands had trembled. 

Steeling herself, the deceiver took a couple steadying breaths; she did not look Swain in the eyes when she asked, “we will continue as planned?”

The tactician resurfaced from his warring emotions enough to reply, “Yes.”

LeBlanc left quickly, wearing her usual Noxian soldier garb. 

Back in the tent, Swain collapsed into his chair and buried his face in his hands.  His hate for Jarvan IV was unquenchable, rational, justified.  But not when it meant the one he cared for came in the crossfire.  He had been so close to…

The general shook his head clear, furious that he’d let himself get so distracted on this momentous day. 

* * *

 

Jarvan IV had not returned yet.  It was taking him so long to perform a simple border check.  Garen paced furiously, wishing he had not let his friend talk him out of accompanying him. Finally the Vanguard could not take the strain of waiting in uncertainty and pulled together one of his divisions.  They began marching to the front. 

***

                Swain conducted his morning stroll alone, as usual.  He picked aimlessly around the abandoned maw of the mine, kicking aside rubble with his cane as he went.  LeBlanc watched him intently from the shadows.  She straightened her helmet and gave one final order to Lilith and Damien,

                “Remember, I, Jarvan Lightshield the fourth, started this.”  With that, she shot out her flag beside the supposedly unwitting tactician.  Not letting him register the situation, she cast out her lance and flew towards the genera.  The two collided brutally, sending Swain flying backwards like a rag doll.  He lay stunned and winded momentarily as Jarvan’s doppelganger closed in on him with a victorious sneer, “It ends here, Swine.”  The prince mocked.  Swain noted with irritation that LeBlanc had gone so far as to utilize his less than glamorous moniker.  The deceiver swung her lance at the immobilized man, praying he’d retaliate. 

                Instead a blood-curdling cry rang from the heavens, and LeBlanc barely turned in time to see the ever faithful Beatrice diving form above.  The raven shrieked past her helmet and clamped onto the lance, averting its trajectory while simultaneously blasting Leblanc with white-hot lighting.  She roared in pain, flailing the lance and shying away from the agonizing electricity.

                By the time Beatrice flitted out of Jarvan IV’s range, Swain was back on his feet, poised to fight.  

"You were saying, Pitiful Prince?"  He taunted.

With mock fury, LeBlanc prepared another charge, but before it took place she caught a glimpse of a most perfect sight out of the corner of her eyes:  Garen and some of his troops charging over the terrain to aid their leader.  _Perfect,_ she thought.  

Meanwhile, Noxian guardsmen had heard the commotion and were quickly organizing their men.  The smoldering fuse of Kalamanda finally ignited.

The plan was right on track. 

LeBlanc turned her attention back on Swain and bellowed with all her might the wretched cry, "DEMACIAAAA!"

 As she had done only a day before, the deceiver split a chasm into the earth as she cataclysmed onto the Noxian general.  Adrenaline coursed through her body, mirroring the pulsing volcanic rock surrounding the two.  Undaunted, Swain prepared a riposte.  An alien green glow began to burn in his eyes.  With the ceremonious finesse only a gentleman of Swain's caliber could muster, he cast aside his cane and drew down the corners of his mask.  LeBlanc knew what was coming; feathers burst from his head and face, rippling over his body like a cape until every inch of his body was avian, not a human trace to be found. His face warped grotesquely, skin split open to be replaced with a gaping black beak and his eyes rolled back red…all six of them.  Two great black wings tore out of his back and he screeched viciously, flexing his wickedly clawed talons. A mass of winged pets spiraled in the sky; they darkened the sun and filled the Demacians with dread at the sound of their ravenous cries.

Though she'd seen Swain metamorph into his demonic second form countless times, she still felt a spike of terror in her abdomen, knowing that for once the full brunt of his fury was aimed at her. 

The two locked in mortal combat while on either side of the cataclysm troops streamed into the fray.  The forces clashed: Steel on steel, body to body until the air was filled with the clanging of metal and the enraged voices of the soldiers. 

LeBlanc lashed out with her lance again, snarling in frustration when Swain caught it in his talons.  Countless birds pecked and clawed at her armor as LeBlanc struggled to pull her weapon free.  In Swain’s chest plate she caught a glimpse of her true reflection; her expression oddly serene while such tumult roiled.

Snarling, she pulled her weapon free.  The two continued to perform a series of feints, lunges, and parries until they were certain there was no end to the surrounding fight. 

Swain caught a hold of Jarvan IV’s shoulder plate and tossed him aside.  He tumbled to the bottom of his cataclysm and lay still long enough for LeBlanc to change her disguises to that of a Noxian soldier.  Swain nodded to her and shot off into the sky, landing atop a small ridge so he could call together his advisors and lead his men. 

LeBlanc let the spell for the cataclysm wane and it crumbled.  She immediately took advantage of her new cover and slipped away through the chaotic throngs, taking down a few Demacian soldiers in the process, but really, who could blame her?

* * *

 

                The fighting raged on well into the afternoon, neither faction gaining much ground.  Every cunning tactic operated by Noxus had been countered with the sheer ferocity of Garen’s men, and vice versa. 

                Demacia’s might lead the charge, persevering through the countless waves of Noxian warriors.  The Dauntless Vanguard had nearly broken through their frontal lines when a dispatch of the Crimson Elite ambushed the right flank.  

                Shouting, Garen reeled his troops into a defensive arch.  His orders were suddenly cut short when three four-inch daggers embedded themselves into the leather strap of his shoulder plate.  Garen whirled in time to see the lithe body of Katarina du Couteau slide into view.  Then in a flash, she was gone.  She appeared again behind him, poised to stab, but Garen easily deflected her lightweight blades.  Katarina tumbled backwards, keeping her footing and sending out a flurry of blades.  The steel clattered off Garen’s armor, one managing to knick a patch of exposed skin.  Blood pounding from the thrill of combat, Garen struck again, narrowly missing the assassin’s exposed midriff; Katarina had dodged solely out of incredible acrobatics. 

                The two repositioned for a second engagement and Katarina drew her curved knives.  She vaulted at the knight, spinning her blades; Garen batted her off as if she were no more than a fly.  The assassin snarled in frustration and tried a different approach.  Katarina flashed back and forth with her shunpo, faster than the blink of an eye, and jabbing out every time she reappeared. 

                The technique worked, Garen couldn’t follow her motions and flailed wildly after her.  Katarina prepared another leap, landing squarely on Garen’s back.  Clinging to his armor with one hand, she aimed a blow at his exposed neck. 

                With a roar, Garen saw her coming not a moment too soon and jerked foreword, flinging her off over his shoulder.  She cart wheeled forwards, landing with uncanny grace.  Garen’s inner fury, however, had been ignited.  He charged, sword raised.  Katarina barely had time to react.  As he swung the ten foot blade in a horizontal arc, Katarina twisted backwards, rappelling off Garen’s chest plate while the blade hissed through the air her head had occupied a moment earlier.  She somersaulted out of range, realizing then she hadn’t escaped unscathed.  The tip of the sword had sliced a four-inch laceration in her forehead; deep in the thin skin.  It stung and began to bleed profusely.  Katarina hissed and wiped away the blood before it could drip into her eye. 

                Furious she wasn’t gaining any ground against the oafish Demacian, Katarina flung out the stops and unleashed a barrage of knives at Garen.  The vanguard instantly ducked, shielding his head from the assault.  Summoning the strength of a true Demacian warrior, Garen shielded himself and charged at Katarina. 

                Seeing her attack do nothing but slow the knight, Katarina re-drew her blades in time to face Garen.  He swung his blade down, seemingly intent on cleaving the girl in two, but Katarina managed to block his massive sword by crossing her own blades, catching his in the crook.  Garen broke the impasse, upper cutting the assassin with a fist to the gut, sending her flying.  She landed in a heap, winded.  Scrambling onto her hands and knees Katarina opened her mouth and spat a string of vociferous curses…except they came out a series of wheezes instead. 

                Relentlessly, Garen pounded on.  He whirled his sword around and around in his signature move, barreling at the assassin. Katarina didn't have time to evade, not this steel tornado. She flung herself into the only alternative besides being sliced to ribbon running away. She dove _at_ him, sliding into his feet with all the force she could muster, and even with his impeccable skill, Garen toppled. Katarina's initial elation at finally landing a decisive blow melted when she saw where the knight was falling: _onto_ her. Garen stabbed his sword into the ground inches from the side of Kat's head, catching himself both there and with his other hand before he crushed the exposed assassin. Kat held her arms up in self defense, catching them against Garen's chest plate. Their eyes met, faces inches away from one another. A rush of heat flooded Katarina's cheeks, though it had little to do with the intensity of the fighting.

                Neither could move in the moments that followed, as if under some strange spell.  Garen was having difficulty breathing, and like Katarina his features took on a similar crimson hue.

 

"Get _off_ me!" She finally screeched and Garen rolled to the side, struggling to dislodge his sword from the earth. The assassin righted herself, feeling oddly shaky, or was it just the way her heart fluttered irregularly?

She sized up Garen again, the two long from being finished. They were rivals, opposites, equals, perfectly matched. Perfectly.

* * *

 

                Talon leapt about, cutting down Demacians with mechanical indifference.  He had taken up his place in the Crimson Elite, not because he felt any allegiance to the army, but because he knew the General would have wanted him to take part in defending Noxus…despite how corrupt it was becoming. 

                A soldier of the Dauntless Vanguard approached Talon as the assassin was pulling daggers out of his previous victim.  The foolishly brave man was twice Talon’s bulk and size; a seasoned veteran. 

 

                No match for the blade’s shadow.

                Talon waited for the man to strike first, he wielded a two handed zweihander as if it were a conductor’s baton.  He swung downward, Talon catching the blade with his own easily.  The blade’s scalloped edges sent uncomfortable vibrations up and down his arm.  But the ring of steel was simply electrifying.  Teeth gritted with sadistic excitement Talon vaulted over his back, intent on slitting his throat and moving on to a better foe.  Yet somehow the soldier managed a block over his shoulder, flicking the assassin off. 

                _So that’s how you want to play?_ Talon thought viciously.

                He drew a handful of daggers and let them fly.  Most were either dodged or deflected, but one embedded itself into the back of the Demacian’s hand. 

                The soldier yanked the blade out with the self-discipline of a master soldier, face only twitching slightly in pain.  The Demacian whirled his blade and he and Talon engaged in a flurry of blows.  They remained locked in combat for some time – longer than Talon cared for. 

                Fending off the soldier with more throwing knives, Talon vanished. 

                “Where did you go, you slippery bastard?”  The soldier growled, speaking for the first time.  His steely eyes flicked to and fro, searching for a glimpse of the blade’s shadow.  He then noticed a ring of blades surrounding him; hovering innocuously. 

                “Come on, Noxian rat, come out,” he hissed, sword at the ready. 

                Suddenly a voice appeared right by his side, “no need, I’m already here.”  The soldier was dimly aware of the feeling of a cape brushing his side, and more aware of the ring of blades, all of which were heading right – toward – him. 

                Talon reappeared as the blades surged back to him.  The soldier, meanwhile, stayed standing for a moment longer, choked, and collapsed in a gory heap.  Glaring around him dangerously, Talon wiped some of the blood off his blade, as if daring another opponent to challenge him. 

                One did; the man rushed to the side of the maimed soldier crying, “Corporal!”

                _A corporal, eh?_ Talon thought, _not bad._

                The second soldier stood and sized Talon up, “you’ll pay-” he snarled, only to be cut off with a dagger to the head.  He collapsed atop his superior. 

                Feeling mildly pleased, Talon sliced into the enemy lines with renewed energy.  In his mind, every Demacian he slew could have been involved in the general’s disappearance. 

                Which made the bloodshed all the more satisfying. 

* * *

 

                Around dusk, most the fighting had been called to a halt.  Save for a few skirmishes all the soldiers were in their camps, recuperating for the next day. 

                Swain returned briefly to his tent, aware he was in high demand at the moment with all manner of commanders checking in and advisors hounding him for a war meeting to prepare a plan for the following days.  But the general was, needless to say, exhausted from a day of flawless deception and skillful maneuvering of troops.  He stepped into his room and breathed a sigh of relief.  Swain was not an arrogant man, cunning, yes; brilliant, yes; ruthless, also yes, but not supercilious.  Yet he could feel nothing but pride at his and LeBlanc’s accomplishment on this day, it was not a self-centered hubris (Kieran could have that), but the exuberance of having a weight lifted from his shoulders, another piece of the puzzle falling perfectly into place. 

                Stretching, the tactician tossed his cane onto his cot…

                …and the bed elicited a moan.

                Swain’s initial shock (for he fairly jumped out of his skin) faded when the source of the noise revealed itself:  the surface of his cot rippled, gradually revealing the not-quite sleeping form of LeBlanc.

                “Mmm, what is it?” She asked muzzily.

                “You…I was just wondering what you were doing in my bed, invisible, nonetheless,” Swain commented with mostly faked calm.

                “Oh, yes, quite a surprise, eh?”  She propped herself on her elbows to send a lopsided grin in Swain’s direction, “it was the first place to sleep I came into contact with, frankly, pretending to be your arch enemy takes a lot out of me.”

                “It would appear so,” Swain said mildly.

                “Did you want to catch a few minutes of shut-eye before your duties ferry you off again?” LeBlanc asked. 

                “Yes…but no, for I’m needed presently,” Swain pulled out a thick quilt as he spoke and laid it over LeBlanc.  “Did you really think my cot was more comfortable than the futon?” he asked while straightening the heavy fabric. 

                “No,” was LeBlanc’s drowsy answer, “but this…this felt… _safer_ ,” she buried her face in the pillow as if to ward off any more questions. 

                Swain didn’t blame her, he knew how such an enormous exertion of magic power could be draining.

The general looked at his hands.  The same hands had been burning with fire this morning and now, they were the hands of comfort.  He made his way briefly into his bedchamber to retrieve a heavier cloak, pausing at the nightstand to prop up his cane.  Swain drummed his fingers against the wood, noting with satisfaction the idea that whatever his hands could destroy, they could also rebuild. 

                Outside he met with Captain Rancor first, the two trailed along together to the main war-room tent. 

                “Most all is quiet now, every division is accounted for,” he informed.

                “Good, good, they’ll catch a few hours of respite.”

                “Sir, how do you think the League will be reacting to his incursion?  They won’t be pleased for sure…”

                “No, no indeed not.” 


	9. Chronocessation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little High-School me was so proud that she made up the word "chronocessation".

Chapter 9

Chronocessation

_Five days after the initial clash_

                “The fighting has gone on long enough, Ms Kolminye, why hasn’t anything been done to stop it?”

                “Shut it, Relivash, what does it look like I’m doing?”  Vessaria continued to hurry through dark tunnels at the Institute of War, robes billowing around her.  Relivash tagged behind irritatingly. 

                “What do you think?!”  He threw his arms up in frustration, “you really believe you can step in there and make some pretty flashes of light and magical razzle-dazzle and they’ll just halt in awe of the League?  Well you’re wrong.  Those soldiers don’t give a rat’s-” he was cut off when an actual rat scuttled over his boot, to his revulsion. 

                Vessaria whirled and faced him, glowering, “the decision on what action will be taken is for the whole council to decide, Heywan, it isn’t all on _me, I_ am simply taking initiative.  I would be more concerned about yourself, Relivash; you displayed _none_ of the urgency and concern the other council members did over the past few days, until now.”

                While Heywan fumed silently, the pair arrived at a door in the tunnel.  Vessaria rapped on it thrice, “my apologies for disturbing you at this hour,” she began politely, “but the situation has grown dire, and we need your help.”

                An ancient, but oddly serene voice replied, “I knew you were going to say that.” 

* * *

 

                Swain strode back and forth at the front; the morning air and the prospect of a battle were invigorating.  The war he had grand marshaled was running smoothly, perfectly, really, as though Swain had complete control of its shifting tide.  The general knew power, and wielding it now was needless to say, exhilarating.  The League had thus far been unable to respond to, let alone quell the conflict – this supposed greatest power in Valoran stumbled and squirmed in the effort to handle his plot.  At this moment in time, Swain felt as though he stood atop the pinnacle of power – short-lived and transparent as it may be. 

                Once Swain had ordered out a couple of divisions to head off a weak ambush attempt by a Demacian platoon, subterfuge obviously being the chivalrous nation’s Achilles’ heel, the general’s thoughts began to wander back to another pinnacle to be ascended: the Grand General’s seat.

                LeBlanc had left for Noxus the day after the clash, and Swain found himself itching to do the same.  His opposition certainly wasn’t shrinking in his absence.  Kieran had wasted no time in drawing in supporters by the droves.  He and his brother insisted that the position be kept in the Darkwill lineage, as if anyone in their right mind would trust Noxus in the hands of that mewling whelp.  The seat of the Grand General had always been achieved in blood, not by right.

                Darius was still present on Swain’s behalf, his imposing presence keeping the tactician’s candidacy one of the two main options.  Other vendettas existed in the high command that still posed a threat, though some had seemingly set aside their ambitions in light of the current events.  As troublesome as if was becoming being away from the politics of Noxus, the warfront was undoubtedly Swain’s greatest asset.  Though the position of Grand General had changed since the advent of the League, Noxians still looked the leaders as a paragon of military power.  At the head of the only military campaign, who could doubt Swain’s prowess? 

* * *

 

                Garen watched with dismay as the back door attack met Noxian resistance before penetrating even their first line of defenses.  He set down his telescope angrily and turned to the soldier beside him. 

                “Xin Zhao, prepare to aid the charge,” he ordered.

                “It will be done,” the warrior affirmed.

                “Does the King plan on joining us?” Garen asked.

                “Of course,” Xin Zhao’s eyes seemed to affix on a patch of the dry ground, “and there still has been no sign of the prince?”

                “No”, Garen sounded pained, “I’m beginning to fear the worst; he hasn’t been seen since the first day of the clash.  He could have been captured, but I’d think that there would have been some ransom price announced, but with Swain in charge…”  The vanguard trailed off into a troubled silence.  Swain wouldn’t think twice about killing Jarvan IV.  If that were so…Garen’s thoughts turned murderous.  If the general slew his friend, the knight would find him, and no mercy would be spared.

                “Shall we head them off?” Xin Zhao inquired, motioning towards the growing battle to the east.

                Wordlessly, Garen nodded.

* * *

 

                Vessaria was growing frustrated. 

                “No no no no no!”  She seethed, the ring of nearly four hundred master summoners acutely felt her fury through their shared mental link.  The aura of the spell faded in failure yet again.  The high councilor turned to Zilean, who also shook his head.  The chronokeeper had agreed to aid the League in performing a time-stop.  By dire need it had been deemed necessary, but the spell involved was exceedingly difficult, even for four hundred of the most powerful summoners in Valoran.

                Vessaria rubbed her temples and retook her place in the arcanic rune circle, the others did likewise, all with some degree of reluctance.  They practiced the mechanics of the complex magic on a flawlessly clear amethyst crystal: a sufficient medium for the time being. 

                With Zilean’s nod of approval, Vessaria readied the others.

                Raising her hands she ordered, “Again.”

                “Again?!” several groaned.

                “We’ve been at this for hours!” A hooded man named Mathieu Shaw protested, “can we at least rest a minute?”

                “No,” Vessaria snapped, feeling no less exhausted than the rest, “not until we can do the motions perfectly.  With magic this strong, it only takes one minor slip-up to ruin everything. If someone falters, we’re all dead. Now try again.”

                The summoners took their places and Vessaria reinitiated the mental links.  Shaw still inwardly grumbled, and a few kept their deep-set doubts, but the overall consensus remained: 

                This extreme measure was necessary. 

* * *

 

                It was precisely six o’clock in the evening, July 28. 

                Vessaria Kolminye led her troop of mages to the edge of the onslaught in Kalamanda.  here they gathered, somber but optimistic, around a previous drawn transmutation circle, identical to the one they practiced on a day earlier.  Zilean laid out the final runes, humming to the beat of his ticking as he went.  He nodded to Vessaria when finished and she drew out the kingpin: a miniature nexus from the Arcanum Vault, a mere shard in comparison to the ones in the rift, but still capable of incredible magic.  The summoners’ eyes widened at the sight of it. 

                “This will absorb the magic and the environmental damage it will cause.  With luck, the two nexuses in Kalamanda will not be damaged nor will the surrounding town be a complete wasteland.  _Only_ if we are very lucky.  We will extract the soldiers after the bubble stabilizes.”

                “What happens after that?”  A summoner, Erida Maude, asked hesitantly.

                “After the bubble is decomposed?”  The high councilor sighed heavily, “Who knows?  But we’ll get to the bottom of the matter, truth and justice will prevail.”

                Erida nodded.  She and the rest fell into position.

                It was ten after six on the dot when Swain was returning to his tent.  A misplaced dispatch note had proved troublesome, so he and Dorian Rancor were checking to make certain more troops were on their way.  From their vantage point on the ridge, they could see where the full heat of the fight was raging.  Soldiers had flooded the fields and the maw of the mining grounds; now the battle spilled into the streets of the town.  Rancor watched the development, shaking his head while Swain rummaged around for the paper: his desk being in more of a messy state than usual in the frenzy of war, not that he minded. 

                It was no more or less than quarter after six when the Demacian camp looked upon a similar scene.  Garen, Xin Zhao, and King Jarvan III sat around a small campfire, grabbing a quick bite to eat before rejoining the fray.  They ate peacefully, knowing the army was left in the capable hands of Quint Skelly.  Each found a bit of solace in their humble dinner setting, though a host of echoing clangs and anguished cries crescendoed just below the horizon. 

                The moment the clock hands struck twenty after six, Vessaria started the mind link and issued one command: “Now”

                All at once an ethereal glow spiraled from the nexus, brilliant shades of red, blue, and green edged in gold.  The light rushed into the arcane pattern at the summoner’s feet before entering their bodies.  The collective sensation was altogether foreign, but not unpleasant.  Once the nexus’s energy had synchronized to each and every summoner, it manifested itself in swirling bands of color before their outstretched hands.  Vessaria gave the signal and they redirected the light back into the nexus, refracting it within itself.  The nexus began to hum, a high pitched whine that betrayed the strain it was undergoing.  Finally it could take the energy no more and erupted the magic straight out the top, creating a blinding white beacon hundreds of feet tall.  The summoners gritted their teeth as they slowly, slowly manipulated the energy, bending it to the heart of Kalamanda.  The beacon gradually detached from the nexus, spiraling into itself until the light beams replicated the transmutation circle the summoners gathered around.  At Vessaria’s signal, the summoners eased their hold, and the circle imploded. 

                Precisely twenty one minutes after six, Swain found the dispatch and rejoined Rancor, only to find the captain staring at the sky with open-mouthed dumbness.  Swain too felt overwhelming confusion at the sight he beheld.

                Air-borne runes imploded, and in their wake a translucent blue bubble cascaded from the heavens down upon the unsuspecting soldiers below.  A shock wave rocketed the surrounding area as the bubble met earth, Swain and Rancor were pummeled backwards by a sudden wind and stinging debris. 

                “What on earth?” Swain roared.

                Twenty-two minutes after six, the Demacian trio gaped at the ubiquitous bubble.  Garen squinted through the billowing dirt, trying to comprehend the phenomenon.  The king pulled off his helmet in awe and Xin Zhao held his spear at the ready. 

                “Gods above,” the king breathed. 

                They realized almost simultaneously that the sound of the battle had vanished; the whole area was dead silent.

                At long last the summoners were released from the spell.  They fell back from the circle, several collapsing in exhaustion. 

                Zilean inspected the still-thrumming nexus that held the time freeze stable.  “Flawless”, he announced. 

                Vessaria heaved a sigh of relief.  Now the real work began: the extraction process. 

* * *

 

_Six days after the time freeze_

Swain felt an equal mixture of relief and annoyance as he waited to at a reception desk in the Institute of War. The extraction process was well under way and he wished to check on the state of his soldiers.  Because of the flawless execution of Urtistani arts on Kalamanda, thus far none of the men on either side showed signs of chrono-displasia, the disease Zilean was ridden with.  Still, Swain wouldn't leave until he saw his troops face to face.  The young summoner at the desk however, was being exceptionally ardent in denying his entrance. 

"I 'm requesting to see my troops," he repeated.

"I heard you the first time," the young woman said with fraying patience, "and the answer still remains: no.  Not until we have extracted everyone, and then not until they are treated and accounted for.  The League wants this operation to be as smooth as possible; no mishaps."

"To account for their discrepancies in the Kalamanda incident, no doubt," Swain muttered, loud enough for the summoner to hear. 

She colored slightly, but contrary to the average person's reaction to being in the general's presence, she seemed devoid of fear.

"Who are you anyways?  What authority do you have in this matter?" Swain demanded.

"I am Erida Maude, General Swain", she intoned forcefully, "one of the summoners who executed the time-freeze operation.  Please sir, I understand your concern, and I assure you, they are in the best of care.  The time-freeze went about as perfect as humanly possible, I don't foresee there to be any permanent harm done to your men."

Swain mulled over her impassioned response and gave a nod of approval, "alright then." 

"You will be notified the moment they can be retrieved," she added, "and for the sake of fairness, I'll inform you the same treatment is being given to the Demacians, believe me sir there have been no lack of them banging down the doors to get their soldiers.  Summoner Mathieu Shaw has been handling them in the other reception area." she spoke in a presumptuous tone, as if she expected the opposing sides to break into war all over again at any second.  Swain thought perhaps Vessaria was wearing off on her a bit too strongly. 

As long as the girl was being mostly cooperative (talkative, at least), Swain pressed her with more questions.  “And what is to be done with Kalamanda?”

Erida narrowed her eyes suspiciously and replied offhandedly, “The League is handling it.”

“Meaning no decisive conclusion has been reached?” Swain pried.

She seemed to weigh her words for a moment, “No, not yet, but it is our utmost priority.  The League will ensure the grounds are properly taken care of.”

“And by ‘properly’, you mean whatever accords to the League’s opinion,” to the tactician, Miss Maude seemed to be increasingly unsure and evasive, leading him to believe the council was under heated debate, or didn’t have the first darn clue.  Or both. 

Erida bit her lip, as if she’d said too much, which indeed she had.  Curtly, she readdressed Swain, “If you’d please move out of line, we are finished here, and I have other customers to attend to.”

He left without a qualm, having gathered all the information he’d intended to divulge and more.  In his mind, the wheels were already turning, whirling into the shape of a plan, a plan which he was sure a certain Ms Kolminye would want to hear. 

Swain segued from the main hall of the Institute of War, slipping off into the passages summoners and champions traversed on a daily basis.  The tactician hoped to run in to Vessaria before he was caught seeking her out.  His note had been explicit and terse, delivered by Beatrice herself; the councilwoman could not avoid him.  

He rounded a bend, catching a glimpse of Senior Summoner Ralston Farnsley and High Councilor Heywan Relivash walking side by side, deep in private conversation.  Swain slipped back around the corner, feeling foolish to hide, but also having the suspicion the duo didn't want to be caught. He wondered: what possibly could the Journal of Justice editor and the High Councilor be so intently discussing? 

As they drew nearer, Swain strained to hear their conversation. 

"I think we've outdone ourselves," Farnsley whispered.

"Don't jump to conclusions, the nexuses aren't ours yet," he paused and muttered bumptiously, "Though they may as well be."  Farnsley chuckled in response.

Swain took in the words, recalling LeBlanc's conjecture, "Did it ever occur to you that the League may have had a hand in the chaos?"  Pushing aside these troubling meditations, he then cleared his throat loudly, causing the two to jump a bit, and tapped his cane along the wall to give the illusion he was just approaching.  Farnsley and Relivash hastened to fall silent and to appear to be up to no chicanery. Swain walked by them innocuously, feeling the keen glare of at least one of their gazes as he passed.  Like so many summoners they had an air of superiority that no doubt came from being someone's puppet master on a daily basis.  He didn't care what they thought of him, but their opinion of him was by no means laudatory.

He found Vessaria after long minutes of limping past groups of bustling summoners.  She caught a glimpse of him as well, and immediately turned to head in the other direction.  Swain rolled his eyes and hurried after her, ignoring how ridiculous his uneven gait looked.  Only when she reached a heavy mahogany door did she pause and speak to Swain. 

"Persistent, aren’t you?"

"I always was." he remarked.

"It's unfortunate that you must remind me," the high councilor sighed.  She motioned him inside what Swain learned were her private quarters.  They took a seat opposite one another. 

Vessaria drummed perfectly manicured curved nails on the mahogany table.  “You sounded so urgent in your summons; I felt I could not ignore them.  However, we must be brief, for I have little intent in being seen around you.”

                “And why, pray tell, is that Ms Kolminye?” Swain implored.

                “I among others have good reason to believe you were involved in the Kalamanda scandal.”  She said icily, red eyes glinting. 

                “Involved?  Dear Vessaria, you know I was just as surprised as the rest when the Demacians breached the armistice.”  Before the council woman could interject he continued, “Was the scandal fortuitous for my cause? Yes.  Did I manipulate it to the best of my means? Of course, don’t we all?”

                Vessaria narrowed her eyes at Swain, “What do you want, you scheming dog?”

                Swain leaned forward over the table, “Oh Vessaria, you _know_ what I want.”

                “And how is this scandal going to help you achieve it?  What were you hoping to gain? Control of a Nexus?  You’re a prime suspect at the moment; I wouldn’t be aiming so high.” She sneered.

                “You’re thinking too linear, Milady, it is not the power of a Nexus I crave, but the _placement_ of said Nexuses.”

                Vessaria’s face hardened into a look of scrutiny, “Spit it out Swain.” She growled. 

                “No no,” Swain chortled, clearly enjoying himself, “I’m going to relish in this moment a bit longer; this moment in which you _desperately_ need my help.”

                The High Council woman hissed under her breath, her eyes ignited with ire.  She balled her hands and cut Swain with a glare of pure contempt. 

                Swain allowed a small grin beneath his mask, “You want to clean up this scandal?  The Nexuses are still in perfect running order, Kalamanda is a ghost town, it’s really quite simple.”  He let the words sink in for a moment, “Give Kalamanda to the League, make it a new ‘Field of Justice’.  It’s a reasonable, responsible move for the League; it will restore some confidence in its judgment and power.  The Nexuses will be spoken for, so no bickering need commence over them.  Those involved will serve their due sentence under the law.  Everyone goes home happy.”

                “And your tracks get covered up in the process.” Vessaria concluded bitingly. 

                “Since when have I ever done anything not in the interest of personal gain?”  Swain replied snidely. 

                Vessaria looked decidedly displeased, “You’ve forgotten your place, Swain, though you may see fit to manipulate everyone around you, the League is out of your bounds.”

                “Really?  Just because the League is shrouded in mystery and awe you think I will not try and succeed in twisting its power?”

                Vessaria slammed her palms onto the table, leaning forward dangerously; tendrils of blue fire spiraled from under her hands, “Know your place.”

“So long as you keep the dignity of yours.” Swain retorted evenly. 

                Both pairs of red eyes locked: one full of fury, the other a hollow chill.  Slowly, Vessaria eased back into her chair, though the scorches of her fury would forever mar the table.  “This decision, of course, shall have to be discussed with the rest of the Council before implemented,” she said offhandedly, “is that all, Jericho?”

                “Yes, quite.”  Swain rose to his feet and Vessaria mirrored him, “I suppose I will be seeing you when the final arrangements are being made?”

                “Unfortunately,” she nodded curtly. 

                As Swain exited the chamber Vessaria called out, “If I do find you’re at all involved in this scandal, no matter what degree, I will have you tried and convicted of treason against the League itself.  You’ve violated the sanctity of the League once and I let it slide, but never again.  You will rue the day you double-cross me.”

* * *

 

                The council meeting dragged on and on into the night, the panel of quarrelsome summoners ages away from reaching an agreement. 

                Many wished the infected area of Kalamanda do be left alone, quarantined and uninhabited, others denounced it, saying it would be safer to destroy the area entirely and erase the stain on Valoran.  A group of summoners and representatives looking to please offered that the area be broken up amongst the city states – denied immediately because of the foolishness of dividing up useless and unstable land.  Senior Summoner Sander Grieves had the gall to suggest the land be given to Noxus as penance for Demacia’s breach of the treaty.  He was put down instantly, most vehemently by his peer, Chancellor Malek Hawkmoon of Noxus.  In response to Grieves' neanderthalic request, Demacian summoner Montrose began a motion to punish Noxus for _its_ breach of the treaty as well as its sabotage of the mines.  The motion was curtailed for being irrelevant. Intermixed in the squabbles, Mayor Ridley repeatedly reminded the council to think of the Kalamanda citizens who now had nowhere to go. 

                The Judicator herself sat at the head of the committee of League Council members.  Kayle’s brilliant wings cast a warm glow on one side of the otherwise sparsely lit deliberation chamber.  As she listened to the clamorous disputes, she found that even her patient, angelic countenance was wearing thin.  She drummed her fingers on her helmet, set on her right side atop the table.  Vessaria and Relivash sat on her right and left respectively.  Vessaria and the angel exchanged wearied looks. 

                The high councilwoman warred within herself.  At this point even the League seemed on the brink of civil war.  She thought back to Swain's plan, as much as she hated to admit it, the scheme was perfect; Swain was an expert at these matters.  And that was the fount of her disquiet; the proud, obstinate, part of herself didn't want to succumb to using _his_ plan. 

Grieves and Montrose had begun to get at each other's throats again, bickering about something off topic that Vessaria didn't care enough to process.  She glanced at Relivash who, contrary to his usual bumptious countenance, looked uncomfortable, though he tried in vain to hide his fidgeting.  Weighing the matters in her mind, Vessaria finally came to the conclusion that a small blow to her pride from not only admitting weakness to Swain, but then implementing his plan was far less an issue than whatever violence may result from the cut and paste plans of a disconnected group of summoners intent on self-interest solutions.  She rapped loudly on the heavy oak table, quieting the other members after several repetitions.  Staring the group down with a pair of scathing eyes, the council returned to their seats, still muttering amongst themselves. 

Vessaria stood and announced in a clear voice, "You seem to be forgetting, Ladies and Gentlemen, that the Nexuses are still perfectly good.  Several reports from our excavation teams have confirmed this fortuitous news. Ergo, what course of action shall flow here from?  The entirety of Valoran is looking to us for guidance, a light in these darkest of times.  We need to reassure the people that the League is there for them, that we have not faltered," she sucked in a breath and glanced around at the half-circle of pale, expectant faces, "Henceforth, I move to make Kalamanda a Field of Justice," there were murmurs ranging from shock to ridicule, "We must restore faith in the League, we stand as the paradigm of all that is good, turning Kalamanda into a Field of Justice will ensure the Nexuses are protected, and the esteem that comes with the land's elevated position will serve as a reminder of the toil and sacrifice, while keeping it sacred.  Hear out this plan, and guarantee that the noble village of Kalamanda will not live in infamy...but rather let this crystal scar live as a message forevermore."

"Hear hear!"  Relivash bellowed in agreement, pounding his fists on the table.  Vessaria whirled to look at him, a look of absurdity written across her face; Relivash had been her strongest opposition throughout most the debate. A moment later her face fell back into expressionless impartiality, but her surprise hadn’t gone unnoticed. 

While Relivash inwardly reveled, Kayle weighed the decision in her mind.  The plan wasn’t perfect, but in the mire of uncertainty and barely checked chaos, it was certainly the best option; a strong start in the rebuilding of peace and faith.  She called the council to vote, and, almost unanimously, the motion passed. 

An aura of relief clung to the group as they exited the dreary chamber.  Vessaria hung back to hold the door open; as people passed her she received many-a congratulating praises.  She accepted them with humility while inwardly gleaning pleasure from getting the credit for Swain’s plan – simply the fact the scheming bastard would take no role in being Kalamanda’s hope delighted her.  He was no hero, and therefore was undeserving of any recognition to give him that status.

The councilwoman pulled aside Relivash, the last one in the chamber, before he could exit.

“Yes, Ms Kolminye?” He asked with an obsequious tone.

“I’m a bit, nay, exceedingly surprised you agreed with my plans so unquestioningly, I believe I should be thanking you for your impromptu support.  However unusual, it’s refreshing to see you put aside your discord with me for the greater good.” 

Relivash was taken aback, “ahh, well, getting this matter resolved is the highest priority, even above personal ambitions.  I’d say this outcome is extremely optimal…acquiring the nexuses is also a perk.”  He nodded to Vessaria and squeezed out of the chamber.

With growing suspicion, she followed him until he joined up with his good friend Farnsley.  They spoke in low tones before Farnsley broke into self-congratulatory laughter.  Vessaria narrowed her eyes at them.  She kept her distance and went off on her own way. 

Only a few more steps obscured the path to healing the wounds inflicted in Kalamanda.  First the announcement would have to be made, and then she’d have the pleasure/displeasure to meet with Jarvan III and Swain, respectively, to discuss the war and the treaty and any other matters to be settled.  Coming to an agreement would be the difficult part, but so long as the city-states’ petty squabbles didn’t erupt into another all-out conflict, Vessaria didn’t particularly care about either city-states’ qualms and grudges.  In reality, it was only the League’s authority that mattered. 

* * *

 

                Swain waited patiently for Jarvan III to arrive at the Institute of War.  He was alone, no guards necessary in the vicinity of the League, and a subordinate of LeBlanc’s had informed him she was indisposed to meeting any guests – leaving Swain a tad suspicious – more so when he discovered Vayne wasn’t present at the Institute.  But now wasn’t the time to be fretting over LeBlanc; political matters took precedence. 

                His thought train was cut short when Jarvan III entered the room.  He held himself erect, but with a slight air of weariness, the battle armor Swain was accustomed to seeing him in was replaced with navy blue court finery.  He nodded to Swain respectfully and the general returned the gesture.  Though Jarvan III was still one of the Lightshield dogs, he’d never harbored a strong hatred for him (save for producing Jarvan IV?).

                Vessaria followed shortly thereafter, clad in formal white robes, exquisitely embellished to what Swain knew to be her liking. She regarded Swain coldly and proceeded to turn and greet Jarvan III pleasantly.  The same treatment was afforded to the tactician; but with significantly less sincerity.  She sat back in a chair, looking exceptionally commanding. The councilwoman drummed her finger tips together and spoke evenly, "As you both know we are here to discuss the treaty.  The armistice treaty that _should_ have kept the Kalamanda conflict from ever happening." She glared at Swain.  "I'd like you two gentlemen, King Jarvan, and Swain, since Noxus is currently without a leader, I trust you will represent its interests, to come to an agreement over the a new treaty; one that will _actually_ prevent conflict." 

"I hardly think an entirely new treaty is necessary.  The old one served its purpose; rather than change the treaty, would it not be more prudent keep certain warmongering princes under control?" Swain made no attempt to mask his barbed challenge.

"Now see here!" The king burst, "this meeting is finished if _he_ has simply come to peg the entire conflict on my son!  You realize he has not yet been seen since the first battle!"

"Too cowardly to show his face?" Swain muttered audibly for only Vessaria to hear.  She scowled in response.  "You forget, King Jarvan III, that it is always the actions of a few that ignite the conflagration of many; why do we not cull the flame at its source?"

"What are you suggesting?"  The king bellowed.

"Merely that a tighter rope be kept around _your_ insolent pup," was Swain's snide reply. 

The king settled down marginally, sinking back and twining his fingers pensively.  "Whist we play this 'blame game', I shall point out that _you_ were the one who counterattacked," he sighed wearily.

"Self-defense, I assure you.  We all know that boy has no qualms in killing me."  Vessaria and Jarvan III nodded.

"Though quite obviously, the feeling is mutual," Vessaria said, she regarded Swain through slitted red eyes, looking suspiciously like a white viper poised to strike.

"So then," Swain continued, ignoring her provocation, "the treaty should be altered, perhaps?"

"With stricter punishment for the breakers of the armistice," Jarvan III added grudgingly.

"On _both_ sides," Vessaria agreed, "of course these terms will not be enforced in the current crisis, only if there is another breach, which I _pray_ all of us strive to avoid," her fiery gaze was trained only on Swain. 

"And," he intoned, "We must add a clause concerning the degree of League interference."

"Interfe- pardon, Jericho?!" Vessaria stammered, "You would be concerned about the level of _League_ interference? Think about how conflict interferes with the balance of the world!" 

"Pity to destroy your perfect little world," was his sarcastic reply, "I merely point out the fact that the League is only a figure to keep the general populace in check; not to meddle or," he looked contemptuously at Jarvan III, "be partial in political matters, you have said so yourself, if you do recall." Vessaria nodded.

"I disagree," the king said simply, "the League has done a fine job of dealing with the current crisis, I dislike the idea of taking away their right to intervene."

"As if they have the gods-given right?!"  Swain rattled, "Forgive my outburst, but after seeing how _excellently_ they've dealt with Kalamanda, how could I be trusting of their methods - not the outcome, it was optimal - for reining in peace?"

“It was necessary,” Vessaria interjected tartly. 

“Bah! It was dangerous! An undue show of power!  If the League can meddle in anything they please, who’s to say they won’t usurp future occurrences they find distasteful?  I don’t see why you aren’t assuming totalitarian control right now, after your stunt in Kalamanda; you could easily get the majority of Valoran to follow you like lemmings.” Swain baited. 

Vessaria barely moved, instead she spoke in a horridly dangerous voice, “Don’t you _dare_ turn this on me-”

Jarvan III interrupted, “this has nothing to do with the treaty!”

“No,” Vessaria growled, attention locked onto Swain, “but it has _everything_ to do with keeping order.”

“It is irrelevant, nonetheless,” the king snapped, “I thought we were here to discuss peace!”

“We are,” Swain retorted, “but our League representative remains sourly indisposed to allow us to work out our problems on our own.”

“Obviously not, seeing how your ‘problems’ have been sorted out in the past,” Vessaria hissed.

All three broke into heated debate, talking over one another and essentially back-tracking from the goal.  Swain leaned back after several minutes of impassioned discourse; Vessaria had been easy to inflame, and he’d finally managed to get under the skin of the most level-headed Lightshield.  At long last, Vessaria put an end to the meeting, excused the two rudely and left them to announce to the rest of the representatives no agreement had been made.  With a twinge of annoyance, she then remembered she still needed to oversee the construction in Kalamanda. 

Jarvan III left with all the calm, regal exterior he could muster, but even the well tempered king fumed inwardly. 

Swain perhaps was the most composed of the three; true, he had purposely baited both on several occasions, not for want of more chaos, but simply because he refused to comply with their pacifistic ideals.  The treaty did not matter; words hold power, but only so much in the fragile, illusionary veil subduing conflict.  The tactician had done his part in Kalamanda, and the treaty could wait.  A much more pressing matter assaulted Swain presently:  time was nigh he vie for the Grand General’s seat.

* * *

 

                It was a sweet sort of homecoming, returning to the scene of an assassination always was for Talon.  Just as he’d done months ago, he slipped into the Kalamanda prison, now eerily vacant.  Tucked in the corner the former cell of Thom Garvin remained as it had been: untouched.  Talon had given him two choices: take the Nyzer poison, or face his blades.  Being a rational man, Garvin chose the poison.  The assassin would have rather dispatched him with his normal means, but in order to make the killing untraceable, he’d resorted to the lowliest means of murder.  Talon didn’t have anything personal against Garvin; he didn’t care that Garvin’s confession fortified Noxus’ position and accused Demacia of conspiracy.  He killed Garvin to prevent Swain from using him to ascend the ranks to Grand General.  Garvin had been his ticket to the top; Talon severed the lifeline.  It never got simpler than that. 

                True to Talon’s talent, no evidence had been left, but that was about to change.  He’d given an anonymous tip that someone sought “undiscovered evidence” in the prison – a bribe too delectable to resist.  The “evidence”? A note with absolute nonsense scribbled with the pretense of being a secret code.  Why would Talon do this?  Simple.  Noxian evidence of murdering Garvin turned fire onto the high command, namely the main representative: Swain.  Anything to hinder his rise to power was worth the risk.  

All that remained was the confirmation of the Demacian's suspicion about Garvin's murder, and who better to execute the maneuver than the Noxian assassin himself? 

Talon only had to let them see him, then disappear.  However, when the clock struck twelve, his plans went dangerously awry.  A group of Demacians burst into the prison, headed by the last person Talon hoped to see: Garen.  The knight spotted him in the shadows instantly, and charged, his vanguard trailing behind.  Talon readied himself for the confrontation; confident in his ability to dispatch the underlings...Garen was a bit more of a concern. 

It was he who struck first.  The knight could not see who he assaulted, but it did not matter so long as he - or she - was brought to justice.  The intruder managed to dodge his first few slashes, but soon parried with his own blade, an odd looking weapon that he handled strangely, though Garen couldn't see why in the dim prison.  The two battled for several minutes, neither gaining an edge on one another, though bodily harm wasn't Garen's intent. 

Talon staggered back a few steps, several inches from being mince-meat.  He didn't know how many more swings from that massive sword he could take; his arm already was nearly numb from absorbing the vibrations.  Another two strikes forced him back several feet.  Then Talon realized what Garen was up to: he didn't want to kill the assassin; he was driving him into a corner to capture him. 

Talon couldn't let that happen.

While Garen reeled back, Talon whipped out a handful of blades, catching several vanguard knights in the chinks of their armor.  The knight hesitated a moment, thinking of his troops, and that was all the time Talon needed.  He flashed away, slipping silently out the prison's back entrance while Garen and the vanguard still searched for him around Garvin's former cell. 

Talon made a break for the wooded area outside the town, it was the only cover for miles, and though it was risky to hide there, he needed a place to hunker down for a few hours while Garen and his lackeys attempted to search for him.  With contempt, he thought, no one in Demacia could possibly track _me._ A moment after the thought passed through his brain, a crossbow bolt hissed by his cheek.  The blade’s shadow whirled, cape billowing, to find the bolt had been fired by a slim, armored girl with an absurd bird on her shoulder.  She was poised to fire again, and Talon realized her last bolt hadn’t missed, it was a warning shot; she could very well have ended him.  But like all Demacians, she was interested in taking him alive, her mistake.  Talon drew a knife from his boot and prepared to hurl it at the exposed part of her lightweight armor, but mid throw the blue eagle darted from the girl’s shoulder and dive-bombed him.  Vision obscured, the blade clattered left. 

“Valor, to me,” she ordered, and the bird retreated to her.  She narrowed intense eyes at Talon and said, “come quietly, Noxian, you must pay for your crimes.”

Talon said nothing, choosing to subtly reach for a handful of daggers.  The girl stepped forward, catching a beam of moonlight.  There was something familiar about the way her chin was set, the way her eyes narrowed, and her lips pursed.  Talon shook the thoughts from his head and took advantage that the Demacian scout had yet to attack.  He fired the daggers in a cone shape, forcing the girl to dive roll out of the way.  She landed safely, but the distraction gave Talon enough time to escape.  As he pelted for the woods, she fired after him from where she’d landed, missing narrowly.  Talon made it to the safety of the woods and stayed hidden high up in the branches of an impossibly thick canopy – too thick even for the blue eagle.  The scout’s expressions, her face, still haunted him, it wasn’t until dawn broke over the horizon that he realized why:

The scout’s face had been eerily similar to his own. 


	10. Turgid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beatrice eats an omelette what was I thinking.

Chapter 10

Turgid

“The situation has grown dire in Noxus.” This redundant phrase had been repeated every time the high command had gathered in the past month.  Every repetition did not mask the truthfulness of the statement, for each time it was uttered the political state had worsened, and whenever the command had deemed the crisis could get no worse, it had done just that. 

                Noxus was divided, cleanly as a severed body and head – an apt metaphor presently.  Almost no one stood undecided, for it was not the Noxian way to waver in indecision. Passions ran high; adamancy railed deep, the fragile state of Noxus was rigged with a thousand fuses, set to blow, waiting, waiting, for some fool to catch on the tripwire. 

                This being said, Swain’s victorious homecoming was a godsend to many – and a plague to most everyone else.  The general consensus was that the succession battle would come down to Swain and Kieran; a matchup pitting youth against experience, tactics versus brute force – the result of the showdown would define Noxus’ future. 

                Despite the politics, a celebration was held for Swain, much like the one thrown in the general’s honor over nine months previous.  Unlike the last revel, the mood was tempered, the general countenance was drawn.  Swain intended to use the party to observe his supporters, and, if possible, recruit additional followers. This time, he did not brazenly parade around with LeBlanc (though he rather wanted to).  She was indisposed as it was, dealing with the Black Rose.  LeBlanc had alluded to Swain that her steady stream of recruits and members was running dry in the face of political uncertainty – the fickle members had deserted, terrified of being caught fraternizing with the infamous cult.  The deceiver was up to her head, tasked with keeping the Black Rose unified. A seemingly impossible quest at times and Swain could sense her inner distress: LeBlanc feared the Black Rose would crumble beneath her once again. 

* * *

 

                He rather liked this part of the throne room better. 

                Kieran narrowed his storm-grey eyes at an imagined exulting audience.  Drumming his fingers against the polished onyx throne, Darkwill’s youngest let his thought metamorphosed into reverie of grandeur: himself at the head of the greatest civilization in all Valoran, the protégé of the noble Darkwill lineage leading glorious conquest across the land.

                _Starting with Ionia,_ he thought darkly, fists clenching.  His widely known failure campaign had occurred there, at the height of the Ionian foray.  A series of botched maneuvers nearly wiped out Kieran’s division – additionally throwing the invasion machination out of order, alerting the enemy to their position, and giving them a chance to recover. 

                The Ionians had almost enough fight to turn out the Noxians.  Almost.  If it had not been for Kieran’s blundering – amongst other poor leadership – Ionia would never have been able to regroup enough to demand release of their colonies.  Their culture would have been erased from history, they would have simply become an extension of Noxus: forever a badge of victory painted sanguine across their peaceful lands. 

                Kieran wanted their blood.  He needed to wipe the stain on his record with a burning purge on their land.  Demacia would come next.  And then…

                Fantasies swirled in Kieran’s mind, series of gruesome yet victorious battles, with him at the front, swathed in glory.  _All of Valoran at my feet_ , he thought, as though the entirety of the people were already bowing down prostrate.

"Kieran, what are you doing in the throne?"  A sharp feminine voice snapped Kieran from his daydreams. 

 Katarina stepped into view, striding down the walkway with caustic aura. 

She did not like seeing him here. 

"Miss du Couteau", Kieran said in a voice dripping with a sickly-sweet sort of venom, "I'm honored."

She stopped, hands on her hips and seemed to be mulling over her next words.  "You're not supposed to be here." she said finally.

Kieran rose from the throne and took two steps toward her, "and why would that be?"

"You're not the Grand General," Katarina snorted.

"But I could be," he inched forward.

"Your lineage gives you nothing in Noxus." the assassin scoffed, "The throne is no more your right than mine."

Kieran bristled - he hated being doubted by his superiors, he would not be criticized by a woman several years younger than him.  "So if you do not think I should rule, then you obviously support that wrinkled bastard, Swain."

Katarina blanched, "Idiot, neither of you two deserves the title.  If my father were here, he would be the undisputed successor."

"But he's not," Kieran hissed flatly, noting with satisfaction how Katarina flinched at the sound of his words, "forget about finding your father, Katarina, only the strong survive in Noxus, his disappearance was fate - unavoidable."

She narrowed her eyes at Kieran, anger building.  Kieran floundered a moment, trying to keep her under control.  "I-I know why you feel you need to find him.  To redeem your birthright - you want to bring glory to your family name, you finding du Couteau is the only way to save your family's honor."  Kieran licked his lips, "But it's not," he took another couple steps forward.  "When I'm Grand General, I won't be ruling alone, I need someone who will stand beside me, someone with a noble birthright...a _queen_."

Katarina's green eyes widened in horror -which Kieran took for shock.  He was inches away from her now, tracing lecherous eyes over her curvaceous, comely form.  "think about it," he whispered.

Katarina could not move, she had never expected this from Kieran.  She had never liked the arrogant imbecile, but now all that dislike transformed into hatred.  Passionate, firey anger surged from her core, but the timbre of his voice had turned the blood in her veins to ice

Kieran sensed the assassin’s indignation, but he knew she couldn’t resist the offer-  

Suddenly Kieran felt the cold steel of a blade press against the side of his neck. 

"Back down," a voice hissed in his ear.  Kieran caught a glimpse of the assailant from his peripheral vision: Talon. 

A sneer twitched on the corner of mouth, while beads of sweat had begun to form at his temples, "Katarina's little blade’s shadow to the rescue," he mocked. 

Talon kept cold eyes locked on the youngest Darkwill and deftly slid around him, putting himself between Katarina and the perverted wretch. 

"What is saving her gaining you, _street rat_?” Kieran rambled foolishly, "Wellborn people like us don't associate with _filth_."

Talon tightened his grip on his blade, thinking how easy it would be to flick his wrist and shut Kieran up for good.  "If you value your life, you'll be silent." Talon snarled.

"You dare threaten me?!" Kieran growled.

"Two Darkwills in less than a year." Talon replied evenly, "wouldn’t that be interesting."

"Is that!  Are you confessing to the murder of Boram Darkwill!?"  Kieran seethed.

Talon said nothing.

"If I find you were the culprit...you will wish General du Couteau had left you on the streets to starve - you'll wish you'd never been born!" before Talon could react, Kieran had his own sword drawn, pointed squarely at Talon's chest. 

"Both of you stop!" Katarina burst suddenly, broken from her trance.

They lowered their blades a fraction.  Talon sent another frigid glare at Kieran and, grasping a hold of Katarina's forearm, he stormed out of the throne room. 

Once outside, Katarina yanked free of Talon's grip.  Her emotions were a whirlwind of confusion - her father, Kieran, Talon, what had transpired in the throne room...it was too much to process.

"Are you alright?"  Talon asked, honest concern showing in his usually expressionless features.

Katarina wanted to say yes, but that was a lie, she wanted to tell him she could have handled the situation herself - that too was a lie, she meant to say, "I don't need you to protect me all the time”.  Instead a rash, half-formed statement tumble from her lips, "I don't need you!"

Talon looked impassibly at her, yet somehow, something in his posture...was hurt. 

She ignored the observation and stalked off, needing space to come to grips with her clashing feelings. 

Talon watched her go, feeling indeed the deep sting of hurt.  _She didn't need him_.  The blade's shadow shook him head; Marcus du Couteau had tasked him with protecting her; she'd always hated him, it didn't matter how she felt now. But above all, it shouldn't matter what _he_ felt.

* * *

 

                The area was packed – full to the brim with all walks of life.  No politics could deter the masses from attending the Fleshing.  Games of gladiatoresque glory and gore made to thrill frenzied onlookers.  Condemned prisoners were set out to seal their fates – either in gruesome death or a chance to redeem themselves with immense displays of strength.  Either that or soldiers wishing to gain prestige pitted their strength and luck against crazed beasts and ruthless soldiers in an effort to achieve acclaim. 

                All the ranking general attended, each with a private boxed seat to view the slaughter in relative comfort.  For Swain, it was an opportunity to converse freely with Darius and _not_ arouse suspicion.

                The hulking general watched the Fleshing with interest, his fingers curling and uncurling around his axe.  Swain watched the display of unchecked blood-lust with amusement. 

“Powerful,” he commented, observing the current match – a beefy soldier had pummeled through a half dozen opponents and now marched over the slain, fists pumping in victory.

                “Indeed, sir,” Darius agreed.  As he spoke, however, a fallen man mustered his last bit of strength to run the victor though the abdomen with a spear.

                “Alas, not powerful enough,” Swain shook his head.

                Darius nodded, “I had once considered participating in the Fleshing.”

                “What stopped you?”

                “My status as a League champion.  I did not want to jeopardize that with potential maiming or death.”

                “How wise of you.”

                “Perhaps you are rubbing off on me, sir.”

                “Is that flattery, Darius?” Swain chortled.

                “More like honesty.”

                “Neither of which will get you far in Noxus.”

                They fell silent as the next victim was brought out – a frail, starved, shell of a man.  He would be poor entertainment.

                “Have you thought about what you will be saying at the meeting this evening?” Darius implored.

                “I have,” Swain replied, drumming his fingers against the top of his cane, “but there comes a point when all possible words on a matter have been said.  I feel the succession dispute has nearly reached that point.”

                “So then it is time to challenge Kieran?”

                “No.  I do not have enough supporters, but soon, Darius, soon.  I have little doubt it will come down to the two of us.  A blood price must be paid to seal the pact of the Grand General’s position.  The bloodshed – his bloodshed – will be necessary.”

                “At that time, you’ll challenge him?”

                “I intend to wait him out.  He will grow impatient.  Then _he_ will challenge _me._   He will come off as foolhardy and arrogant,” _and,_ Swain thought, _he will die that way_.

                “I understand, sir,” Darius affirmed.

                “Now…there is a way to expedite the process,” Swain started slowly, “if a show of power is demonstrated today, one that guarantees me additional support…”

                “Yes?”

                “I need you to confirm your allegiance to me, Darius, it is well known you are my supporter, but to openly announce your fealty, _that_ is a grand show of strength, and our alliance will be awe-inspiring, guaranteed to rope in support.  Will you swear it?”

                “I will, sir,” Darius agreed.

                “You do understand what this means, don’t you?  Swearing allegiance to me means you will obey my every order unquestioningly.  Even if you fail to see its purpose…even if I appear to be straying from my intended path.”

                Darius scrutinized Swain, but as always could not glean a single detail of what he might have been alluding to.

                “I understand.”

* * *

 

The meeting was stagnant and brittle.  Stagnant with exhausted options and brittle with unrest.  Swain was used to the cutthroat aura of High Command meetings, but this was a different sort of beast. 

Everyone had assembled, Kieran and Swain noticeably placing themselves at the far ends of the chamber, with supporters clustering near them, gradiating outward to the high command members still unsure.   The ardently loyal glowered at their indecisive counterparts, while those in question weighed the gravity of their position: how they themselves could swing the battle.  An awkward silence hung over the chamber, no one wanting to be the first to speak, in the fear their move might speak too strongly of nonexistent motives. 

Chancellor Malek Hawkmoon, fortunately, was present and a nonfactor.  He stood and gave a small, empty-worded exposition - repeating what had been repeated over and over, and now had no meaning whatsoever. 

Darius' eyes darted around; gauging which generals would be easiest to sway first.  While he made his assessment, the Generals began to discuss - argue, really - succession. 

After several minutes of redundant blather, Swain rapped the head of his cane on the table, cast a glance at Darius and announced, "I strongly urge you to recall Chancellor Hawkmoon's words on the Grand General position: since the advent of the League, it has changed from a post of sheer brutish, warlord power to one that must balance a militant state with diplomatic relations.  As such, I ask for us all to consider this before a Grand General takes power.  Think deeply on where your allegiance lies…the actions of a few will determine the future of Noxus,” a murmur rippled through the crowd as Swain sat back down – Kieran overtly snorted, eliciting a glare from Darius that made the boy visibly shrink.

Darius snatched a glance at Swain, who nodded, while the rest of the generals still conversed lowly.  As he rose to his feet, his ever-present axe scraped against the onyx tiled floor ominously.  Darius looked uncertainly down the rows of expectant faces, feeling an uncomfortable twinge in his gut.  How easy it was to slay multitudes of opponents, yet to speak out now and truly make an impact…that was far more delicate…more terrifying.    Darius knew he could kill a good majority of the generals present with a glare – the older ones especially.  Darkwill’s lapdogs.  He went back and forth in his mind before he spoke.  How should he start?  Did he need a preamble?  What is even is a – no. He did not need a preamble.

“I hereby announce my alliance with Lieutenant General Swain,” he rumbled.

His words caused a stir in the high command.  Swain’s face remained characteristically unreadable.

“It is well known that I have often sided with General Swain in smaller matters, but let it be clear I have sworn my fealty to him.  Any supporters and troops of mine serve his cause.”

“Thank you, Darius,” Swain intoned lightly, “I accept your loyalties.”

Darius felt shocked a moment, and annoyed; he _accepted_ his loyalty!?  Had they not fought together, connived together, been near equals in most everything?  But, he slowly realized Swain’s strategy; in making the proposal seem like a bit of a surprise, it gave the impression Darius and Swain had not been in league with one another closely for long – it made them less suspicious, less of a threat.

Kieran narrowed his eyes at the duo - a formidable pair - he was not so blind as to overlook that. 

The ambivalent generals felt a new woe growing in themselves – Kieran had seemed to be a good fit for the Grand General, but if they sided with him, how could they ever stand up to Swain’s cunning _and_ Darius’ ferocity?  Yet siding against Kieran meant turning their backs on the noble Darkwill house that had lead Noxus since before the League.  The ambivalent sank deeper into uncertainty, until an epiphany struck: wait and see who is stronger, wait and see.  We will side with the powerful – Noxus thrives this way.

Chancellor Hawkmoon rose again after the previous murmur died down

“Our second order of business-” he was cut off as a crash sounded from the side of the chamber.  An insurgent, dressed in black, had somehow broken through the outer guard rings and a five-foot thick magic enforced stone wall.

“Death to the high command!” He roared, jettisoning an oblong object at the command: a bomb.

Darius thrust forward, putting himself between Swain and the bomb.  With a sweep of the flat of his axe, he sent the bomb flying across the chamber, clattering into the low seated pulpit where it detonated harmlessly beneath a stone bench.

Darius breathed a sigh of relief. 

Meanwhile, the rest of the command either exchanged shaken glances or trained furied glares at the insurgent.  The man in question looked around uncomfortably, realizing too late he was cornered.  Still, like any Noxian, he put up a fight, diving for the hole he had created in the onyx wall. 

Swain acted quickly, "stop him!" he bellowed, instantly taking charge.  Kieran and Darius drew their weapons and charged in, flanked by the younger generals.  They chased the man down a labyrinth of winding tunnels, yet he somehow eluded them at each turn.  He wove right, right again, shimmed through a narrow segment, make another right turn and stumbled right into Swain, who had been lagging behind the rest for obvious reasons.  The tactician wasted no time, thwacking the poor sod with his cane.  Runes swirled beneath the insurgent's feet, replaced moments later by curved talons.  The man howled in frustration and pain, the talons digging deep into his flesh. 

Moments later, Kieran and Darius charged around the bend, skittering to a halt at the sight of Swain and the trapped insurgent.

"How the hell did he get to him first?" Kieran growled in a manner most uncouth.

"The imbecile was running you in a circle, I merely happened to catch him at the other end of the circuit," Swain replied evenly. 

Kieran thrust his sword in the direction of the man, "let's kill him now," he aimed the tip at the man's throat.

"No," Swain argued, "his crimes must be made example of. A public execution will be a sufficient warning to anyone else who would try to incite anarchy."

Darius nodded, "Draven will be pleased to do the job."

"Of course he will," Swain said shortly.  By now, other guards were arriving at the scene.  They seized the man and proceeded to take him into custody. 

"Death to each and every traitor!" he roared as the guards dragged him away.  He spat at the assembled generals, "I may have failed to destroy the high command, but the Ivory Ward won't go unscathed." 

"What is that imbecile blathering about," Swain growled under his breath.  He glanced around, "this meeting is adjourned." 

"You don't have authority to-" Kieran whined. 

"Darius, come, we have matters to attend to."  Darius obeyed, casting a withering glare at Kieran as he left. 

None of the other generals had the nerve to speak against Swain or Darius. 

* * *

 

The Ivory Ward, Noxus' richest, most prestigious area lay tranquil in the blissful night.  Two soldiers stood at the entrance of one end of the ward in the Morcef district; most of the citizens residing within were affluent enough to hire their own guards, therefore common Noxian soldiers were not needed, or not welcome.  One of the guards was painfully bored, he made a great show of reminding his companion of this fact every few minutes or so.  The other soldier's patience was wearing thin - like the string of a violin pulled taut - as a result, he knew this was basically the least interesting post in the guard circuit - he just wanted the evening to end so he could get his new post for the following day.   The first guard complained again and the second was about to lash out rudely at his whining partner when a piercing cry shattered the calm.  The soldiers whirled around, startled, grabbing for their weapons. 

“Think we should go in there?”

“We’ll be court-marshaled if we don’t.”

They pelted down the streets, drawn to the nucleus of the commotion.   Deep in the marketplace, in the rows of shops, some commotion raged. As the soldiers neared, they heard the occasional cry, the shattering of glass window panes and the splintering of wood.  But by the time they rounded the bend that led to the central marketplace, the clash had dissipated.  The square was trashed, in shambles, not a single shop had been spared.  Broken vendor stands lay in heaps of rubble, glass shards littered the ground, catching bits of moonlight. One of the soldiers crouched down, trailing a gloved finger through a suspicious liquid.

"Take a look, it's blood," he gasped, "but...no bodies."

"No casualties then?"

"Guess not."

They picked around the wreckage warily, certain that they'd be ambushed any moment. Yet the Ivory Ward had settled back into its tranquil silence, the nasty scars on the buildings serving as the only reminder an insurrection had occurred. 

"We need to call in back up."

* * *

 

                The non-complainer of the duo, Larin Daris, found himself in a whirlwind of unanticipated attention.  (The whiney, other soldier received zero acclaim…Daris conveniently left him out).  The Journal of Justice had already hunted him down for interviews, but he soon grew perturbed when later that same evening – actually early the next morning – General Swain himself sent summons to Daris. 

The foot-soldier shifted uncomfortably on the surprisingly comfortable divan of Swain’s drawing room.  He’d been expecting an interrogation-room type situation, not being served tea in the general’s house.  Darius sat across from him in a loveseat just big enough to accommodate his girth.  The soldier swirled the tea in his cup nervously, glancing at the scones artfully lining the saucer below it. He felt as though he were being watched – those suspicions were confirmed when he noted with a considerable jolt at least ten enormous ravens dotted the room, perched on clocks and windowsills and chair backs.  Daris jumped, rattling his china, when one lighted down on his shoulder.  The raven greedily eyed – six of them, mind you – the scones. 

“Beatrice, leave the man alone,” Swain sighed, he briskly entered the room, walking lightly to the center and addressed Daris.

“I think you know why you are here, “he stated, “but I want to reassure you; you are not in trouble,” Swain paused to take a sip of tea; Daris followed suit, gulping the scalding liquid.  He glanced over Swain quickly, taking stock of what he saw.  His soldier mind was not impressed: a frail, aged figure, with an unstable frame.  Yet…the man’s red eyes never wavered, the hand curled over the top of his cane had long fingernails, curled like talons.  Daris gulped, taking a hasty swig of tea to cover up his discomfort. 

There was something ancient about him, an inhuman placidity.  Daris felt to be in the presence of someone far superior to him.  Insurmountably so. 

“My question to you, Daris, is of the nature of the attack.  I am aware you did not see any of the attackers, but you _were_ the first on the scene,” Swain explained.

Daris sat pensively, “they didn’t care what they broke – just sorta smashed up everything they could.  Someone or a few people got caught in the crossfire – there was blood, but…unless they dragged off the bodies no one died.  Seems to me it was just some anarchist vendetta tryin’ to make a statement.”

“I see…” Swain’s brow furrowed, “it is interesting you called them anarchists…I’m not officially allowed to disclose this detail but…at the meeting held by the high command this evening, an insurgent entered with the intent of blowing up the chamber,” Darius made a surprised sound; Swain ignored his silent outburst, “the man is in custody and the matter is being stifled.  You _will_ not divulge the information, understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Daris thought a moment, “sir, did you consider that the Black Rose may have been involved. 

Swain received the news like a backlash.

“I mean…they were stealthy, no traces left behind…they obviously came to make a mess and that’s all the further evidence we got.”

Swain remained quiet for nearly a minute before speaking, “potentially.” was all he said. 

“I agree,” Darius put in, “it makes sense the Black Rose would try to do something before the next military ruler is in power.”

“Vexus Nirac was also reported missing,” Daris said excitedly, “he could be a part of-”

“His allegiances are unconfirmed; therefore he is of little value,” Swain interrupted, “Daris, thank you for your help.  You may go home now.”

He nodded, setting down the half-drunk cup and saucer.  The moment he turned towards the door, Beatrice swooped in to snatch up the scone.  She crunched noisily on the pastries. 

Darius stood, “Sir, I should be returning home.”

“You may go.  One question, first, Darius.”

“Yes?”  
                “Do you believe what Daris said?”

“I do, it wouldn’t surprise me if the Black Rose is still running underground…if it never stopped.”

“Do you think they are dangerous?”

“No, not in the least.  But what about you sir, with your history-”

“Darius,” Swain snapped, “I believe I have made my feeling about the Black Rose clear.”

“Yes sir.”

“Secondly, will Daris be a supporter?”

“You seemed to intimidate him; he very well may follow you.”

“So then it _is_ better to be feared than loved?” Swain asked philosophically. 

“Of course, sir,” Darius puzzled.

“You may go.”

The general nodded and lumbered out of the drawing room.

“Better to be feared than loved,” Swain muttered to himself as he readied for bed. “Growing up…I had always thought the former, it was only natural.”  He swung the door to his bed chamber closed, “but now…” A curious item on his nightstand drew his attention: a thorned onyx ring rested on the polished wood.  His ring.  How it got there…well, he could guess.  He twirled the artifact between his thumb and forefinger, “now I seem to be getting sentimental.”

* * *

 

Swain awoke when a curious smell reached his nose. He jolted awake, inhaling the incredible scent deeply: someone was cooking bacon downstairs.  Rising quickly, Swain stretched his stiff body and grabbed his cane, moving unconsciously to the aromas wafting from the kitchen. 

He halted in the shadowed doorway, blinking tired eyes under brilliant light radiating from the usually silent kitchen.  Swain received most of his meals through the military – whether he dined with a foreign dignitary or at a celebratory feast, it was always an extravagant affair; he rarely ate at home. 

It, of course, was LeBlanc who sauntered about the kitchen, tending the stove here, stirring up better there.  She wore a frilly white apron, hair piled atop her head in a careless bun; looking exceptionally vibrant.  Swain found himself feeling a tad uncomfortable in his rumpled pajamas.  He inwardly berated himself – it was only LeBlanc.

Or was that the ultimate reason for his discomfort?

“You seem to be in a habit of sneaking into my dwelling place,” he commented. 

LeBlanc twirled to face him, eyes flickering with mischief, “why yes, yes I have,” she turned back to the stove and thoughtfully turned over the bacon, “goodness, do you ever use your kitchen?”

“Rarely.”

“Are you upset I’m here?” she asked slyly.

“No, you are always welcome.  I just wonder why you are going out of your way like this.” 

She smirked, “I thought it was high time we have a chat,”  she stirred the batter and began pouring out waffles, “and after last night, well, I was a bit concerned about…you and, with the Ivory Ward and the High Command attacks…”

Swain moved beside her and took over tending the bacon, “I’m touched Evaine.  I didn’t think you still worried about me like this.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she snorted, covering concern with bravado, “you’re an important ally.”

“Thank you Evaine,” Swain said quietly.

She glared at him, “if you’re looking for reconciliation, you’ll get none of it here.”

“I’m just glad you’re here.”

“Get the silverware and set the table.”

Though Swain was unaccustomed to being ordered around, he didn’t mind taking commands from LeBlanc.  She had, after all, been his superior at one point.  The tactician ambled to his cupboard, realizing with a jolt he didn’t remember which drawer held the plates or which drawers held the silverware – in fact he couldn’t recall where most of the entities of his kitchen resided. 

Once the dishes had been procured, he shuffled around the heavy wooden table in the adjacent dining room, setting two places on the near end of it.  Leblanc appeared minutes later with a steaming platter of waffles and a plate of bacon, still sizzling.  Swain returned to the kitchen to collect his miniature tea kettle and teacups, filling the former with piping hot water from the stove.  If there was one area of the kitchen he was still familiar with, it was the tea cupboard.  Returning to the dining room, he poured a cup for himself and LeBlanc before settling into a heavy wooden chair. 

LeBlanc placed a steaming pate in front of Swain after he took a seat.

“What is this?” Swain asked oddly.

“An omelet,” she said offhandedly.

“LeBlanc, what do I turn into?”

“A bird,” she replied coyly.

“And what do birds lay?”

“Eggs.”

“So don’t you think it would be a bit odd if I were to eat eggs?”

“Maybe.”

Swain stared at the omelet pensively before declaring, “I can’t eat this.”

LeBlanc looked greatly offended, though swain suspected it was in jest, “I worked so hard to make that for you,” she sniffled, “the least you can do is appreciate my effort.”

“I _do_ appreciate the thought but…” Swain simply couldn’t bring himself to consume the egg.

Instead he helped himself to a plateful of waffles and bacon.  LeBlanc followed and for several minutes they were silent, intent on consuming their meal.  Beatrice, who had been perching on the back of an empty chair, started to glare ravenously at the omelet set before Swain.  She tilted her head, eyes slitting, waiting until she was certain no one suspected her.  Spreading her wings, Beatrice then shot forward suddenly, snatching up the omelet in her beak.

“Beatrice!” Swain burst, aghast.

The raven flapped up to perch on the chandelier, swallowing the omelet in one gulp.

“What is wrong with you?” The general demanded, regarding his bird with utmost appall.  The bird cocked her head sideways quizzically, unaware or apathetic towards Swain’s distress. 

The tactician shook his head.  He drummed his finger on the table, about to delve into more pressing matters, “LeBlanc…did you confront Vayne?”  Swain looked bluntly at the deceiver, who appeared momentarily taken off guard. 

“How…?”

“Vayne was not at the Institute of War last time I was there.  I merely assumed you had something to do with it.”

LeBlanc closed her eyes briefly, “I did.  She confronted me, I hid, we spoke, I think…we both uncovered something from the exchange…and I don’t believe she’ll be bothering me in the near future.”

“Good…good.  I was more concerned that you had harmed her significantly.”

LeBlanc interrupted, “you mean _killed_ her? Honestly, since when do you euphemize things?  I’m not foolish enough to attract _that_ kind of attention.  Though I’ve mentioned in the past I wouldn’t mind doing away with her.”

“But you don’t think she’ll be any more trouble?”

LeBlanc breathed deeply, “no.”

Swain propped his chin atop a curled fist, “speaking of the Black Rose…I am ashamed to admit that  I basically ruined any semblance of decent regard towards it,” LeBlanc’s eyes widened, and Swain hastily explained before she could interject, “when I interrogated the witness from the Ivory Ward incident, he suspected the Black Rose was responsible.  Darius agreed.  I had hoped to start to hint that the Black Rose may be a useful ally – at the very least, not a threat.  But now…now it’s a prime suspect,” Swain shook his head, angry with himself. 

“I don’t think this mishap will be as horrible as you think,” LeBlanc said finally, “getting the Black Rose back into good graces will never be an easy task.  Don’t fret, the time has not yet come to reveal your motives, the worry will die down, and besides, you must focus on the grand general’s seat first if we are to have any chance,” she looked pensive, “and still thereafter it will not be easy, the Black Rose has such a stigma and, well, it isn’t called the _Black_ Rose for nothing.  Though I still feel its wickedness is merely _on par_ with that of the military state.”

“The Black Rose’s time will arrive in due time,” Swain agreed.

“If there is anything left of it,” LeBlanc said bitterly. 

The tactician looked at her, shocked, “what ever do you mean?”

“I’m losing the Rose – it – it’s happening all over again,” anguish shone in her eyes, distress showing clearly on her usually placid visage, “members are leaving, they have no faith, they’re all afraid.  So afraid.  I’m afraid.”

Swain reached across the table and pressed her hands between his, “Evaine, don’t talk like that, you have kept the Rose alive through years of tribulation and trial – you prevented it from being wiped out.”

“Only because you looked the other way,” she said miserably, catching Swain’s eye, hers brimmed with unimaginable pain, “I can’t let the Rose crumble beneath me again.”

“You mustn’t blame yourself for the past, Evaine.  Emilia appointed you Matron at the Rose’s darkest hour; it is not your fault the Rose fell apart.  Darkwill was ruthless; he wasn’t going to stop until every last Black Rose member was dead.  Never forget: you kept the seed alive, I doubt even Emilia could have handled such a herculean task.”

“I hope you are right,” LeBlanc sighed, consoled but not convinced. 

“The Black Rose will bloom once more, but this time _we_ will make sure it flourishes.  This isn’t all on your shoulders.

LeBlanc’s gaze never wavered from Swain’s, “I dearly want to believe you have learned to not make promises you won’t keep.”

* * *

 

In the du Couteau's yard, noble gardens dotted here and there, overflowing with a rich variety of blooms, an ancient orchard bordered to the right of the manor, snaking into the back yard; laden heavily with fruit. Slashing through the tranquil setting, two assassins dashed about, impossible to follow save for their glinting blades.  Katarina and Talon had been sparring for the better part of an hour- the du Couteau's dark-armored guards could attest.  The pair, locked in friendly combat, still looked like they were attempting to turn the other into mince meat.  Though tasked with preserving the lives of both assassins, not one of the guards wished to come in between the clashing blades.  

                Katarina twisted out of the way of a jab that surely would have impaled her and back flipped out of her opponent’s range.  Talon growled to himself; despite being Katarina’s sparring partner for nearly a year, he never could quite out do her acrobatics, she always managed to bend out of the way, flitting just out of his reach.  Katarina felt a similar ail; she too often forgot the intensity of Talon’s jabs and his methodical persistence in fights.  If it were not for _her_ extreme flexibility, she could never stand up to his tenacity. 

                Their match soon began to draw to a close: Talon forced Katarina back into the orchard.  Katarina thought she had the terrain to her advantage here – she tick-tacked off the trunk of an apple tree, intent on pummeling Talon from above.  However, she miscalculated her backswing, and soon found her blade embedded in the soft wood.  One slip-up was all Talon required to end the engagement.  As Katarina struggled to free her blade, Talon placed the tip of his against her collarbone.  Katarina’s shoulders heaved, part from being out of breath and more so from anger.  She locked gazes with Talon’s carefully shielded visage.

                “You’re improving,” he commented.

                “Shut up,” Katarina snarled and shoved away from him.  His voice had a strange quality to it – pride? – no, it was…warmth?

                Both returned inside – cleaning up after their practice.  While Talon indulged Cassiopeia’s request to teach him to read, (she had developed a fondness for Talon…one Katarina wasn’t sure if she approved of), Katarina mulled over her meeting with Kieran.  She hated the snake as much as anyone, the thought of him on the throne left a bitter taste in her mouth.  Yet the thought of Swain assuming leadership was also too revolting to consider.  She needed to find her father more than ever.  The assassin swore to herself she and Talon would re-double their search efforts.  The attack on the Ivory Ward had left valuable clues; they would start there…

* * *

 

The final preparations had been made: Kalamanda was now a Field of Justice.  Vessaria shook hands with Ridley, who was torn between being relieved the nightmare was over, or feeling a sad, bittersweet panging seeing what had become of his beloved town. 

“Thank you for all your help, Councilor,” he sighed.

“It is the least the League can offer,” Vessaria replied offhandedly.

“The people of Kalamanda will not forget the great tragedy and hope that converged here.” Ridley said simply, “the townspeople are settling in to their new homes comfortably.  Many are proud to see Kalamanda become a revered addition to the League…but still so many mourn.”

“Time will heal the wounds,” Vessaria assured, but it became clear to the mayor her thoughts were elsewhere.

 They stood in the center of the mining area of Kalamanda, but where Ridley saw the barren remains of a once booming industrial site, Vessaria saw something much different:

She saw her opposition transposed over the area, as though the entire field was a conceit for the recent events.  She envisioned the different parties at their strategic holdings, some biding their time, some already making their move.  The world to her was never as brilliantly simple as it was presently: every bit of the puzzle was clear, every adversary; perceptible.  This was not a game in which everyone would win to a degree; the time for jejune pleasantries had long passed. The game had changed to one of ultimate victory, and unconditional defeat: complete dominion for the conqueror.

The status Vessaria planned to achieve.

* * *

 

                Draven swaggered down the streets of the Ivory Ward, grinning as he caught glimpses of himself in bits of partially shattered windows and once in awhile in the shiny steel of his casually twirling axes.  Having just executed the armed insurgent who had gate-crashed the High Command meeting, Draven was walking on water.  Still the mustachioed executioner felt the need to demolish more hapless prey.  This want brought him to the training arena, where he could raze dummies to his heart’s – or ego’s – content. 

                With a raucous laugh, Draven aimed an axe at the first dummy across the way.  A moment after the whirling projectile set sail, Draven noted with irritation the dummy had already been cleaved cleanly in half – straight through the wooden frame to the ground. 

                _Darnit Darius!_ He thought; retrieving his axe and feeling completely unfulfilled.  He’d get back at Darius for this sometime – such was the nature of their rivalry.

                The Hand of Noxus had destroyed the entire collection of training dummies with brutal efficiency – splitting wooden-framed dummies was nice and all, but Darius’ hand twitched, longing to sink his blade into a more satisfying victim. 

Darius ran a hand over his polished axe.  His absence from the Kalamanda incursion had left him itching for blood, so too his blade craved to purge the world of weakness.  The general hefted the blade, admiring its perfect balance and flawless design, and he began to sense the time to satisfy his thirst was looming.  Yet for once he did not know if he would be ravaging foreign lands, or if his culling would fall among his own people. 

* * *

 

Jarvan IV’s mission was nearly complete, but the prince could not return home just yet.  Even though he longed to put an end to the slanderous claims that _he_ was responsible for the war in Kalamanda.  Of course, he was quick to blame Swain of the act – but logic drew another conclusion.  Weeks of sleuth work had yielded a disturbing product – clues that all seemed to point to the _League’s_ treachery, not Noxus.  Jarvan was still inclined to believe the culpability of the latter, but his evidence reeked of scandal at the heart of the auspicious League.  The prince had soon discovered he was not the first to realize the conspiracy being (potentially) perpetuated by the League, another name continually turned up in his quest:

Marcus du Couteau.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My best friend in High School used to read this chapterly as I wrote it and she hated cliffhangers hence the Karthus interlude. I have no valid explanation.

Chapter 11

Diametric

Silence reigned supreme in the outskirts of Noxus.  A week or so after the Ivory Ward incident, most of the hype had calmed down, but not for a singular prince who crept around in the shadows.  Jarvan's search had brought him to the heart of all evil in Valoran: Noxus.  Yet though he practically was waltzing into the maw of the lion's den, his next lead on Marcus du Couteau was indubitably in the nefarious city-state.  The prince crept closer, observing the periodically spaced guard towers, trying to figure out which would be the right spot to slip in; where there might be a blind spot.  He had spoken with Vayne before he set out to Noxus, seeing as she was adept at getting in heavily guarded areas - Noxus included.  She confided that there was indeed a blind spot on the south end of the city, a bent up drainage vent that one could slide through during a narrow time window when the guards changed shift.  Jarvan was able to locate the entrance without much trouble; it was the timing he suspected would be finicky.  Glancing at the hextech pocket watch, Jarvan peered between the two guard towers, catching a glimpse of the guard's glinting armor.  Three minutes to go, he thought tensely, eyes darting back and forth.

The measured marching of guard's feet snapped his attention back to the armored parapets; they were changing out.  The prince hurried to action, tucking away the watch and starting to edge across the open terrain between himself and the wall of Noxus.  He slipped through the grate and began to slog through shin deep muck of origin Jarvan didn't care to know.  He was grateful his heavy military boots kept him relatively immune to the filth.  The tunnel let out in the midst of Noxus' slums.  All manner of shady figures crept about; no one took notice to the tall, hooded man crawling out of the gutters, covered in grime like the rest.  It would be a more difficult manner getting into the richer districts where the du Couteau manner stood.

Jarvan made good time sneaking through the city, keeping his eyes trained on the menacing skull beacon at the city's heart.  Such a sight chilled him to the bone; a constant reminder of the danger he potentially faced: the crown prince of Demacia within the walls of their arch-enemy’s abode.  What could possibly go wrong? He thought sardonically.  A troop of guards marched down the street and Jarvan ducked into an alleyway to avoid confrontation.

"You there!" One shouted.

Dread pierced deeply into Jarvan's gut.  Keeping his head low, hood shadowing his features, he answered, “yes?"

"That's yes _sir_ , to you, _filth_ ," he backhanded Jarvan with enough force to send him stumbling into a pile of refuse.

The prince bristled furiously, his famous temper rearing its ugly head.  He would not be treated as such, not a sole in Demacia would dream of disrespecting him so.  But this was not Demacia; and for once his goal was more important than asserting his power.  So Jarvan submitted, "Yes _sir_." He was unable to keep a hint of a sneer out of his voice.  The guard seemed satisfied, but upon detecting the sneer, shoved Jarvan the rest of the way over, into the heap of refuse, before strutting away, laughing.

Jarvan scraped together the few remaining bits of dignity he could muster and scrambled back to his feet.   His hand unconsciously ran over his contracted lance, hidden beneath his cloak.  The prince contemplated charging down the two soldiers, slicing them to ribbon and see how they would recast to being put in _their_ place.  But...Jarvan clenched his teeth; he couldn't blow the entire mission for the sake of his wounded pride.  He was in too deep to err.  Brushing off his soiled clothing as best as he could, unable to erase the stench of feces, Jarvan darted down the alleyway, keeping low and in the shadows.

Minutes later, the spire fence of the du Couteau manor came into view, standing out starkly against the dim moonlit sky.  Like the outskirts of Noxus, the manor too was armed to the tooth. The sharp outline of guards stood out; spiked helmets pacing relentlessly between spiked outposts. Jarvan calculated his odds; if approximately five guards were responsible for each post, with a potential of at least seven outposts lead to a total of thirty-five or more guards.  These were not numbers the prince could work with, not comfortably, not without risk of capture or death.

He could be delivered into Swain's hands once again.  No matter how much time passed, no matter how strong he became, no matter how much he claimed he felt no fear for the Noxian general, a deep terror would always be emblazoned into his soul, ever since that day.  Fear of capture, fear of death, fear of dying at the hands of that _swine_.

The prince cleared his head of such thoughts.  He crept silently around to the back of the estate; expansive yards filled with orchards and gardens.  His chances were mildly better sneaking in there. Jarvan scaled the fence after the group of guards crept by, landing with a soft thud on the other side.   As he suspected, the guards turned back, alerted by the slight disturbance.  Quickly, Jarvan rolled behind a tangled black-berry bush, cursing inwardly as the brambles caught on his cloak.  He waited until the guards lost interest and continued along their way. Grunting, he unclasped the cloak and shoved it deeper into the mass of thorny vines; IF it was found, it would be months after he was long gone. Jarvan straightened up, bracing his back against a small apple tree and glanced around at his surroundings.  He had a straight shot to the manor, granted he dodge between shrubberies as he went.  He waited tensely for the next guard patrol to pass before diving behind the next copse of brush.  Then after the next patrol passed another dive.  It was tense, nerve-wracking work.  Jarvan could feel his patience fraying; he was not cut out for this type of stealth work.  But after a half hour of crouching and rolling, muscles taught and aching, the prince reached the wall of the estate.  He eased himself to his feet, breathing a sigh or relief as he rested momentarily against the rough stone wall.  The respite lasted an ephemeral second.

Jarvan jolted into alertness when a dagger embedded itself into the heavy leather shoulder plate.  It didn't penetrate the enchanted black leather armor however, giving the prince a valuable moment to reach for his lance.

The assailant was faster, halting Jarvan mid-draw.  The prince glowered down at the curious blade aimed at his chest.

"It took you long enough," Talon hissed.

Jarvan's eyebrows raised a fraction in surprise.

"I really wasn't all that interested in watching you bumble about the orchards like a fool for the past half hour, but it seems I have a better capacity for that sort of patience," the assassin regarded Jarvan with contempt, "the guards are inept buffoons, did you really think they were the only defense for the du Couteau manor?"

Jarvan said nothing, seething inwardly.

"What filthy rat thinks he can sneak into the du Couteau household?" Talon demanded.

"The crown prince, Jarvan IV of Demacia," Jarvan snarled, dropping his cover and springing his lance to life.  The force of the blade wrenching apart jolted Talon's blade back from Jarvan's vitals.  Wasting no time, the prince slammed his lance into the ground and swung himself in an arc around the top of the lance.  Talon dodged his whirling strike, diving around to stab from the side.  Jarvan reacted quickly, pulling up his lance to block.  The assassin counterattacked, unleashed a handful of knives.   The prince ducked behind his weapon, deflecting them all off the blade and enchanted armor.  The Demacian hurdled into Talon, catching him off guard.  Talon skidded backwards, crossing his arms across his chest to deflect Jarvan's lance.

"Stop this!" Jarvan demanded, "I haven’t' come to kill anyone, I'm here for information on Marcus du Couteau's disappearance!"

A foolish move, Jarvan berated himself a moment later; the assassin didn't care for his motives.

He was wrong. Talon halted instantly, standing upright.  "You have information on the General?" he asked tentatively.

"Only that his disappearance may be linked to the League of Legends and the Kalamanda scandal."

The assassin weighed his words.  "Wait here.  Don't try to leave, or I'll alert the guards."  He disappeared in a flash, leaving Jarvan to wonder if he shouldn't run, if he wasn't walking into another trap.

* * *

 

"Katarina?" Talon rapped softly on her door.

Her chambers were quiet for a minute, so he rapped a bit more in earnest.

"What the hell do you want?" came her muffled reply moments later.

"I...I have a lead."

"You, what?"

Talon heard clambering followed by the clinking of locks as Katarina opened up her door.  Her red hair was a ratted mess atop her head, clear emerald eyes puffy with sleep.

"About father? What did you find?"

"Ah..." Talon shuffled uncomfortably, "more like, _who_ did I find.  Someone with information."

Katarina's eyes narrowed "show me," she ordered and began marching behind Talon with the dignity only a noble could muster in her pajamas.

Jarvan had not shifted from where he stood in the garden.  His initial fears of capture had begun to abate when he came to the conclusion that the du Couteau family wasn't one of Swain's lapdogs - quite the opposite, actually, he suspected.

While immersed in his thoughts, Jarvan failed to see Talon sweep out of the manor again, giving him a jolt.  The assassin motioned him inside a small cellar lined with barrels.  Drying spices hung in bundles from the ceiling, choking out the space with pungent aromas; Jarvan had to stoop to avoid hitting them.  The sinister blade stood in the corner, arms crossed, looking perfectly irritated to have been awakened at such an ungodly hour.

"Katarina, this is the informant, he has information on the general," Talon began tentatively.

His caution went to no avail.  Katarina's eyes widened instantly and a name dropped out of her mouth, venomous as if it were a curse, "Jarvan." She lunged forward lightning-quick with her knife, but Jarvan clamped a hand over her wrist, halting her deadly attack. She squirmed under his grip, trying with all her might to wriggle past his impediment.  Jarvan clenched his grip tighter, thinking he would sooner snap her arm than let a Noxian brat end him.  Her eyes widened with pain, but Katarina did not relent in her attack.

"How strange, a Noxian trying to stab me in the front," Jarvan snarled at her.

Katarina spat in his face.

"Stop this!" Talon ordered, pointing a blade at both of them.  The sinister blade narrowed her eyes at Talon, outraged by his betrayal.

"This is the crown prince of Demacia!" Katarina hissed, "why are you defending him?!"

"He claims to have information about your father, hear him out."

"And if he doesn't?"

"Then we'll kill him where he stands."

Katarina seemed satisfied and dropped her blade.  Jarvan more reluctantly released her wrist, which she instantly cradled against her chest, nursing the sore limb.

Talon kept his blade trained at the crown prince, "tell us what you know."

Jarvan whetted his lips and began to speak, "I don't know where Marcus du Couteau is."

Katarina lurched forward, "see! He doesn't know anything!"

"Not true, I've been sorting out evidence for the last few months."

"Evidence of what?" Talon asked skeptically.

"Treachery committed by the League of Legends."

The assassins exchanged curious looks. "Go on," Talon ordered.

"General du Couteau's name has appeared many times in my search, he seemed to realize the League was up to something; ever since the DSS Excursion sank - supposedly as a result of Noxian necromancers."

"Which it wasn't," Katarina stubbornly interrupted.

"And for the first time...I'm inclined to believe that.  According to the evidence, the League may have been pitting Noxus and Demacia against one another."

"Why?" Talon asked incredulously, "Isn’t it obvious enough that we hate one another? Why would the League try to incite - or allow - conflict?"

"Kalamanda had - has - riches.  They very well could have had their eyes on it."

Katarina furrowed her brow, "this isn't good."

"Agreed," Jarvan said cautiously, "I came here to see if I could find any further information on the General, before his disappearance." He glanced between the assassins, gauging how much they may be willing to talk.

"Well, there's not much here," Katarina shook her head, "I've combed through all his possessions, and anything he may have had he took with him or destroyed."

Jarvan looked down, "so it's a dead end."

Katarina brightened, "maybe not, father had been investigating the causes of the DSS Excursion incident; when he disappeared...he'd been on his way to the Ivory Ward."

"So maybe because of the attack..." Talon tried to read Katarina's expression, "Maybe...evidence was unearthed?"

"It's a good lead," Jarvan put in mildly.  He stood up, "I know we have long considered one another enemies, but for now, for the collective good of Valoran and _all_ its peoples...will you two consider me your ally and you mine?  I must bring justice to this conspiracy, and if it means finding your father, Miss du Couteau, along the way, so be it."

Katarina nodded, for the first time in months, a new light ignited her passion: hope.

Talon was a bit more reluctant; he had no interest in accepting help from anyone, let alone a _Demacian_.  But...

But finding the General meant everything to him.  And if allying with this man was his only link, his only chance, he would take it.

"I accept," Talon nodded.

"We'll start by investigating the Ivory Ward tomorrow," Katarina said with barely curbed enthusiasm.

She and Talon led Jarvan into their estate and set him up with an empty servant's quarter chamber (recently vacated, courtesy of Cassiopeia).  They locked the door from the outside, assurance that he could not do any spying and gave the prince strict orders not to be seen by Cassiopeia (orders which he happily obliged).

Before Katarina returned to her chambers, she turned to Talon and asked quietly, "do you think we'll find him?"

Talon looked her over; exhausted and frazzled, yet glowing with hope.  Her eyes so earnest and bright...he had never seen her so emotionally fragile.  As much as he wanted to see that light in her, the assassin reminded himself how often hope was a double-edged blade, how biting disappointment could be worse than feeling the elation of hope in the first place.  “We’ll do what we can.”

* * *

 

Jarvan awoke the next day feeling extraordinarily disoriented.  He glanced around the provincial, austere room he resided in; nothing like his extravagant chambers back home.  Then he remembered; he was in Noxus, he had made an alliance with Katarina du Couteau and her mysterious shadow, Talon.

"What possessed me to do this?" he muttered aloud.  A rhetorical question; he knew it was all in the name of justice, only for justice.

The prince waited around for at least a half hour before Katarina and Talon came to meet him.  They regarded him with the same amount of distrust he afforded them.

"We'd better get going to the Ivory Ward before they clean it up," Katarina announced.  She tossed a bundle of black cloth at Jarvan.

"What's this?"

"A cloak, can't risk anyone recognizing you."

He nodded and slipped the sleeveless cloak over his leather armor, drawing the hood so it shadowed his face.  The trio filed out of the room, Katarina in the lead, Jarvan sandwiched in the middle, and Talon heading up the rear.

Katarina and Talon lead him to a study tucked away in the far wing of the manor; General du Couteau’s study.

“This is all I’ve been able to uncover,” Katarina announced, holding up a wrinkled letter.  “Father gave this to me just before he left.  It just has a bunch of runes on it in a pattern; I can’t figure out if they mean anything or correspond to anything,” she tucked the letter away.  “This and the Ivory Ward, and whatever you might have are all our leads.”

“It’s not much to work off of,” Jarvan shook his head.

“We’ll just have to make do,” Talon put in, “come on,” he sent a suspicious glance at Jarvan, who Katarina had unknowingly let into his safe-haven (simply from lack of knowledge that it was indeed his safe haven).

The prince kept his head low as they strode down the front walkway of the manor and out onto the cobblestone street.  He barely glanced around at the other Noxians trudging through their daily lives.  Contrary to his teachings, they weren't all the lawless thugs he'd been told about.  A cornucopia of people all tread the same path; thugs, business men, soldiers, officers, merchants, all with their respective lot in life.  Every single man, woman, and child held themselves with a fierce pride for their occupation, knowing that their purpose in life was most often their chosen path.  How unlike Demacia, where people were born into their respective class and taught to be content in their places, rarely moving out of their social class.  Noxians could grow to be anything or anyone they wanted, granted they had the drive to achieve it, whereas Demacians were taught to remain content within their caste.  Jarvan shook his head; he could not imagine living the chaotic lifestyle of a Noxian; he craved the order Demacia abounded in.

When they reached the Ivory Ward, it became clear entrance would be impossible.  Already guards had blocked off the perimeter and investigations had commenced.

Katarina swore under her breath; the orders for this investigation had to have come from the top, so not even her status as a du Couteau could waive the blockade.

The trio pulled off into an alley to discuss their options.

"This is a dead end," she growled.

"Maybe not," Talon, whose attention was elsewhere, spoke up.  He pointed to an askew back door of a shop, "We could get in there."

Wordlessly, they did so.

The shop was cluttered with all manner of exotic curios, most of which Katarina thought were illicitly acquired.  After a cursory glance of the area, they determined the owner of the store was Vexus Nirac; a simple merchant, so it seemed.  Stealthily, the three picked through the rest of the shop, the upstairs living quarters, and the cellar, careful not to be caught by the investigators outside.  What they gleaned spoke of a simple merchant who had made a good life for himself (with however suspiciously procured items); nothing nefarious afoot.

"This is a waste of time," Katarina seethed, old frustration ebbing to the surface.

“Wait, what’s that?” Talon asked suddenly, referring to a curled parchment sheet covered in curious writing.  The assassin picked it up and peered curiously at the runes…familiar, somehow.

“Aren’t those the runes from…”Jarvan began.

“The letter!” Katarina exclaimed and pulled it out.

The three hunched over the two papers.

“It almost looks like…the letter is a rubric, meant to translate the runes,” Katarina hypothesized.

“He must have been intercepting these notes, keeping a tab on whoever was sending them,” Jarvan said.

Katarina pulled out a blank sheet of paper and found a charcoal stump.  After several minutes of craning over the code and scrawling down letters, she resurfaced with a bizarre message:  Go below what is trodden upon, and pass a single door through, buried deep are secrets here.

She read the rubric aloud.

“Well that doesn’t mean a bloody thing,” Talon growled after mulling it over a few minutes.

"You're right," Jarvan agreed, standing up from where he crouched by an old trunk on a rich Ionian rug.

They looked to Katarina, who acquiesced with a nod.   

As Jarvan moved towards the door, his foot snagged on the edge of the carpet, flipping up a corner.

"Look there!" Talon gasped, pointing to a subtle glow etched into the wood floor.

Katarina rushed over and turned over the rest of the rug, revealing in a puff of dust a circle of runes.  Teleportation runes.

"Why would he have these here?" Jarvan queried.

"To make a quick escape if the going ever got bad," Talon muttered.  He caught Katarina's eye and she nodded.

"We need to follow these," she said aloud, “it’s just like the rubric, ‘go beneath what is trodden upon’, and they meant the rug.”

"Are you kidding?" Jarvan argued, "We have no idea where they lead to, it could be a trap, or worse we could fall right into our adversary's hands."

"Nirac has been missing since the Ivory Ward attack," Talon commented, "it's not outrageous to think he could have panicked and used this escape route."

Footsteps approached the shop from the outside, causing the trio to duck down over the rune portal.

"We're running out of leads; we have a chance, let's take it," Katarina insisted.

"No going back," Talon agreed.

With that, Katarina recited the teleportation spell her summoners had frequently used within the Fields of Justice, the portal drew open, and the three were dragged through.

* * *

 

They flashed out of the portal again in a motley heap, sending papers flying everywhere.  Katarina disentangled herself from the rest and glanced around.  The room was deserted, save for herself, Talon, and Jarvan.  It looked to be an abandoned study, judging by the layer of dust that had accumulated on everything their entrance hadn't disrupted. Papers were strewn everywhere; it looked like the last person who had been inside had been desperately looking for something, or had gone to great trouble to cover his or her tracks.  If Nirac had been through, he had simply used the portal as an escape route, not bothering anything in the study.  The three perused the chamber, taking care not to leave unnecessary traces.  Katarina picked up a receipt from the table: an order for arcano-seismic charges.  Scrawly handwriting had circled the name to which the receipt belonged: Pirerith Fletcher.  The writing read: "Does not exist; false lead".  It was then Katarina realized to whom the handwriting belonged: her father.

"Talon!" she gasped, "this is father's writing!"  She scanned the stacks of paper, noticing several more documents had the same swirling script scratched onto the corners and circling passages of interest.  Tears stung at the back of her eyes, though she blinked them away; she could not resist the rush of emotion, after all this time she'd finally found a real lead.

"Wait," Jarvan said slowly, "I recognize this place..." he stood by the door, glancing out the barred window at the top.  He turned to Katarina and Talon, "we're in Demacia."

"How?" Talon demanded.

"The portal lead to a hidden room beneath our primary prison, a place once used for secret meetings between Noxian infiltrators during the old wars."

"What are we going to do?" Katarina asked, "We can't show our faces here, we have to go back!"  She searched through the scattered papers where they had landed.

"I don't think so," Jarvan shook his head, "that portal looks like a one-way route; otherwise we would have discovered its where abouts years ago."

"So what?" Talon asked, "What do we do?"

"You seem to forget that I am the crown prince of Demacia," Jarvan chuckled, "It's high time I return to my people, I will grant you two amnesty and diplomatic immunity while we remain allies."

"But we can't let it be known that we're aiding Demacia," Talon said shortly.

"It could alert Swain of our whereabouts...and intentions," Katarina added quickly.

"Swain?" Jarvan asked bitingly.

"We have good reason to believe he's responsible for my father's disappearance," she said quietly.

"How so?"

"He disappeared; Swain was promoted into his position, then Darkwill is murdered a couple months later and now, without my father to stand in his way, Swain has a straight shot to the throne."

"I see..." Jarvan made a disgusted face, "Though my initial suspicions led me to believe the League perpetuated treachery, it does not surprise me that Swain would take part in the corruption."

Talon nodded, "if he knew we were here, aiding your search, it would give him free reign to brand us as traitors...all of Noxus would see our actions that way."

Jarvan nodded slowly, digesting the information, "it is settled, I will make my entrance into Demacia and you two will be simply my anonymous 'prisoners'.  We will be able to continue our search in secret, with all my resources as royalty at our disposal."

Talon and Katarina exchanged disgruntled looks at the sound of "prisoners", but what other choice did they have?  The Demacian prince would honor his word.  He had to.

"We'll do it," Katarina agreed.

"Very well, I'll begin preparations immediately."

The assassins waited uncomfortably for several minutes while Jarvan pried open the door and disappeared down the dark corridor adjoining the hidden chamber.  He returned with two sets of old, tattered clothes, and a length of rope.

"Put these on," he said, "I know a back way out of this prison that leads to the outer wall of the city, we'll go there and re-enter formally."

The assassins nodded and slipped the rags over their clothing.

"After that...I'll have to bind you both."

"Whatever." Katarina grumbled.  At least she would be enduring humiliation with blissful anonymity.

She and Talon allowed their hands to be bound and followed Jarvan out through a maze of tunnels.  When they reached the outside, they were blinded momentarily by the brilliance of midday sunlight; they had forgotten it was still daytime, for the time spent in the reconnaissance chamber had seemed endless.  In a nearby paddock, Jarvan's horse stood waiting, grazing patiently in its outlandish armor.  He tied Katarina and Talon to tethers attached to the saddle, mounted the horse, and headed for the front gate.  

* * *

 

  


Garen could not believe his ears: after two months, Jarvan had finally returned to Demacia. He immediately disbanded the training exercise he led; needing to see the news with his own eyes.

A sizeable crowd had formed along the pathway, throngs of people clustering to catch a glimpse of the return of their prince. Garen wove to the front of the group. Jarvan rode in proudly, as was his manner, mounted and in full battle dress. Peculiarly, he escorted two prisoners as well.

"Prince Jarvan!" Garen called out when the prince did not notice his presence.

Jarvan barely glanced down at Garen and didn't stop.

Garen tried again, "Your highness, do you require the Vanguard's assistance for transporting those prisoners?"

"Halt now, Garen," Jarvan said brusquely, "your assistance is not needed, but there is much to discuss."

Feeling brushed off, rightly so, Garen demanded, "Who are these prisoners? Why the secrecy?"

The crowd's murmurs echoed his curiosity.

"This is the business of the crown. Your loyalty is appreciated, Garen, but the Dauntless

Vanguard has no place in this matter. Stand down," Jarvan ordered and Garen obeyed, however disquieted by his friend's show of coldness.

The prince completed his journey to the castle, leaving his horse with a groom, and leading Talon and Katarina to the safety of his private wing. He ordered out all the guards, maids, and servants.

"We made it," Jarvan breathed once all three were inside his battle chamber.

"That vanguard asks too many questions," Talon muttered.

"Unfortunately he won't relent in his search for truth until he uncovers my plan," Jarvan rubbed his temples pensively.

"What are you saying?" Katarina asked suspiciously.

"I wish to incorporate Garen into our plan."

"Why?" Talon asked bluntly.

"He will be an asset, I assure you. We may need his prowess. And he is my friend; I dislike being so secretive around him."

"Alright," Katarina agreed, reluctantly.

"I still don't like it," Talon grumbled, but here in Demacia, his opinion was of little value.

"I will get you both situated with rooms; I have a feeling you both will be staying here awhile."

Jarvan lead them to two small rooms, adjoining, with little comforts. "You may improve your living area however you'd like, ask and I'm sure I can acquire it for your time here.”

“Nothing is necessary,” Talon said shortly and Katarina nodded in agreement.  

“As you wish,” Jarvan ushered them into the rooms and shut the doors - not locking them.  Talon and Katarina didn’t need to wonder why; the fate awaiting them if they left their miniature safe haven did not paint a pretty picture.  Jarvan locked himself in his own study and began pouring over the new evidence, itching to get back to the reconnaissance room for more searching.  

Katarina paced furiously around her new room, as was her habit.  Talon watched her relentless circling pattern with mild amusement while he himself sat crosslegged, keeping both calm and alert.  

The sinister blade halted suddenly, “we’re traitors,” she whispered.

“No we aren’t,” Talon scoffed.

“Think about it!  We’re aiding a Demacian _in Demacia_ , and we’re doing this by choice! That sort of screams ‘traitor’, don’t you think?!”  Katarina flung her hands up into the air.

“We’re in a joint venture to discover whether the League has committed treason - as League champions, don’t you think we’ll be pardoned because of that?”

“Not by Swain, nor Kieran, if either of them take the throne,” Katarina said stubbornly.  

“They don’t even know we’re missing,” Talon affirmed.  

Katarina ceased pacing, “I hope you’re right.  Talon...what if it _is_ the League that staged the entire Kalamanda scandal? What will happen to the world?”

“I dunno, chaos, war probably.”

“You don’t sound concerned,” Katarina said angrily.

Talon jumped to his feet, “Frankly it wouldn’t hurt my feelings if the League disbanded; if finding your father uncovers that, so be it.  The ends justify the means.”  

“That’s not the point!” Katarina raged, “war means death - death of Noxians, do you really want to see that kind of bloodshed?”

“Says the girl who has had no issues shedding her fair share of blood in the past,” Talon narrowed his eyes at her.  

“You don’t feel any connection to anyone! Not even your home - you wouldn’t lift a finger to fight for Noxus unless there was something in it for you!”  Katarina yelled.  

“You’re right,” Talon growled, “I wouldn’t.”

“Then what are you even doing here?”

“Looking for the General.”

“And when the leads run out?”  
                “I’ll ask myself that question again,” Talon whirled around, exiting to his room.

Katarina felt stung, for no good reason.  She felt like a fool for thinking that perhaps somewhere, deep down, Talon had cared about her family.  But he was simply a mercenary; just like every other allegienceless Noxian.  

* * *

 

Garen paced around inside the castle entryway.  He reran his encounter with Jarvan over and over in his mind.  Something was definitely up, he just couldn't seem to pinpoint why.  Most perturbing was that the so called "prisoners" had been taken to the castle, not the prison.  In fact, they had been traveling the opposite direction from the main jail.  Unless Jarvan was holding them in the castle's private prisons...  Garen shook his head, that made little sense as well, the prisoners did not look extraordinary in any way; a couple of dirty ruffians as far as the knight could tell.  He could find no conceivable reason why Jarvan would have anymore than a fleeting interest in them, much less take them to the castle prisons.  

The Vanguard's thoughts were cut short when an attendant finally approached him.  

"May I speak with Prince Jarvan?" Garen asked without being prompted.

"No sir, I'm afraid he's preoccupied with much work," the attendant stated formulaically.  

"Of course, he's just returned, but that is the very reason I need to speak with him," Garen insisted, "you know very well he has been missing since Kalamanda, I must know what happened to him; not for the sake of the military but as a friend."  

"I'm terribly sorry Sir Garen, he will see no one."

Garen narrowed his eyes, given the extenuating circumstances of Jarvan's disappearance and now his impromptu, bizarre return, the knight was not about to take no for an answer.   Without so much as an "out of my way", Garen charged past the attendant, feeble cries ignored.  By the time Garen reached the stairs, reinforcements had been summoned.  Unfortunately for their sakes, they were members of the Dauntless Vanguard, and when Garen ordered, "stand down men!", they had no choice but to do just that.  

With a clear shot to Jarvan's chambers, the knight was halted by the arresting sight (arrestingly _lovely_ sight) of Katarina.  She noticed him instantly, green eyes growing wide.  Garen reached for his sword instantly, expecting her to waste no time attacking, but instead she turned and fled down the hallway of Jarvan's network of chambers.  

"Halt Noxian!  I'll see you tried for this!"   Garen's pulse fired into battle mode, he took in every detail; noting instantly the assassin was rushing towards the door of Jarvan's study.  "Jarvan!"  Garen bellowed, "an assassi-"  

A heavy body crashed into him, toppling them both.  In a bewildered instant, Garen felt his sword kicked away and a hand clamped over his mouth.

"Quiet, do you want to alert the whole castle?"  Jarvan's angry voice hissed in his ear.  

Garen took the question as rhetorical, seeing as his mouth was covered.  

Jarvan released his grip on the knight and both leapt to their feet.  

"You have a _Noxian_ here?"  Garen hissed incredulously.

"Shush, come into my study."  Jarvan motioned both Garen and Katarina to follow.  

"Noxian _s_ , actually," Jarvan said once he'd locked the door.  He nodded toTalon, who leaned up against the wall in an unlit corner of the room.  

Garen figured out the rest almost instantly, " _these_ were your 'prisoners'!  Why?"  

"Calm down," Jarvan said with a certain peremptoriness that Garen found irritating, "I'll explain everything.  First off, I _was_ going to tell you, just as soon as I had these two settled.  Obviously, you can't take 'no' for an answer and had to come charging up here and nearly break my cover."  

"But why them?"

"Because...let me tell the whole story, from the beginning."

"From after the battle of Kalamanda?"

"Before then; you see, Garen, I never took part in the battle of Kalamanda."  

* * *

 

Dank, filtered light struggled through pervasive mist rising from stewing, steamy vents.  Noxious gases wafted through the morning air, dissipating their toxic odors upon wilted, scraggly shrubs, and clinging in clumps above deep pits of bubbling muck.  

Karthus sat up in his thatched cottage, caught a glimpse of the scenery and thought, "what a lovely day it is!"  He then rose, dusted off his moth-bitten robe, straightened his headdress, and creaked to the bathroom.  There, he methodically brushed his teeth, molars to incisors, and back again, with a broken [something], cleaning it off with the scummy, stagnant water in his moldy basin.  He rinsed the thing carefully and proceeded to scrub the rest of his shiny dome, tucking the headdress under his arm.  "Don't you look nice today, Karthus?"  he hummed to himself while he helped himself to some rotten meat, marinated in swamp sludge, and some lollipops stolen from children.   Once he had finished eating, Karthus moved from where he had stood, taking a stubby broom to sweep up the meat and lollipops, which had, quite literally, gone right through him.  He paused to pick up the lollipops out of the muck; they were far too pretty to throw out.  He then click-clacked to his private skull collection, polishing the lovely bleached domes of some of the dustier skulls as he went.  To his favorite skull, he tucked the lollipops into the eyes.  The chiming of his grandfather clock reminded him of the funeral he needed to attend.  Poor old what's-his-name, didn't matter, a funeral was just such a fun get together, why did he need to remember the name of the host?  Slipping into his best, raggedy, cloak, Karthus pulled the hood over his ghastly features and made his way to the funeral.  

After the merry making was finished, late into the afternoon, Karthus returned to his swamp in the Shadow Isles.  His army of undead hung around his house, moaning emptily.  

"Oh, my poor darling warriors," Karthus crooned, "Let me sing to you!"

Defying all physical and biological laws, without vocal cords, Karthus began his haunting tune.  Instantly, the undead warriors were soothed.  Just then, Sona came floating up to his doorstep, strumming out a beat to his song.  She waved shyly, and Karthus was reminded of the Pentakill practice he was hosting.  Mordekaiser and Yorick followed shortly thereafter, completed by Olaf who looked like he had started partying even before the practice.  After they practiced, the five sat around the sagging couches in Karthus' living room.  Then they left.  Sona was the last to go, she waved goodbye to Karthus and at that moment he realized: she TOTALLY had a crush on him.

But after all, what babe like her could resist a guy like Karthus?

* * *

 

In the Institute of War, the mood was far from peaceful.  While a good percent of Summoners were making amends with the people of Kalamanda, Noxus, and Demacia, Vessaria was plagued by her own demons. She had a reasonable belief that something fishy was going on between Ralston Farnsley and Heywan Relivash.  Knowing what she did of the two of them...any common goal they strove for could, in no way, be harmless.  Waiting until Farnsley had departed for the Journal of Justice office and Relivash was preoccupied with the public, Vessaria snuck into Farnsley's office.  It was filled to the brim with papers: notebooks, scraps, useless wrappers, old Journals of Justice, among others.  Vessaria groaned inwardly; was this a new type of security?  Instead of locking up his stuff, he masked it  under layers and layers of other material, making it nigh impossible to unearth.  The councilwoman started to riffle through strategically, beginning with the desk in the far center of the room.  She paged through the stacks, shaking out pamphlets and books, scanning the pages quickly, and returning them to basically their proper place.  Vessaria didn't expect Farnsley to remember the precise location of all his papers in this disaster.  Minutes ticked by, and she was acutely aware of how the time waned.  Suddenly, her keen eyes caught a glimpse of a half-sealed envelope addressed to the Journal of Justice post, labeled to "H. R."  She picked up the paper and started to pull it out of the envelope when the door behind her creaked open.   Vessaria froze instantly, dread making her unable to peer at the visitor.

"Vessaria?"  Farnsley stammered, "What brings you to my private office."  He eyed her strangely, dangerously.

She swallowed a lump in her throat, "there were some papers you needed to file, I came to collect them since you were indisposed."

"Funny, I'm certain I filed all my work before I left," his beady eyes glanced around suspiciously.

"Well then, the records must not have been updated, my apologies," Vessaria exhaled finally and robotically made her way to the door.

"Vessaria, what is that in your hand?"  Farnsley asked.

She cursed herself inwardly, "oh this, I'd forgotten I even had it," against her will, her arm reached out to hand off the evidence.  Farnsley took the envelope and tucked it instantly into his robe.

"Ah, this is what I came back here for, fan mail, you know, from my avid readers," his eyes searched Vessaria's face for any trace of intent.  Finding none on her stony visage, he watched her go and followed closely behind her.

"If you would kindly refrain from invading my private workspace; we wouldn't want you getting into things that don't concern you, now would we, councilwoman?"

Vessaria whirled around, about to spit a fiery retort, "is that a threat?!"

But instead she gazed at an empty corridor, Farnsley had vanished.  She narrowed red eyes in his direction as something clicked in her mind: "H. R."

Heywan Relivash.  

* * *

 

"Before you outburst, Garen, let me explain," Jarvan inhaled deeply, "You remember I was in Kalamanda very near the beginning; just after the riches had been discovered.  Then, you recall, I left under hasty circumstances, mere days after the prisoner's, Thom Garvin, questioning," Garen nodded, "I have not been in Kalamanda or Demacia since then.  After the sinking of the DSS Excursion - allegedly by Noxian necromancy - then the mine collapse and Thom Garvin's supposed involvement in that under my order," he paused a moment, rubbing his temples.  "By then, pieces weren't adding up, so I set out to discover the truth, and have ended up running myself ragged.  I feel like all the evidence has lead me in a vicious circle, each clue leading to another mire of mystery."

"Of course you weren't involved in the mine collapse," Garen affirmed, "you would never."

"Let me finish...my search has reaped some disturbing results: the League may be culpable for...everything, the whole Kalamanda scandal."

"I - I don't believe it!"  Garen shook his head, "with everthing the League stands for, how could they ever take part in such treachery?"

"I find it difficult to believe as well, Garen, but proof is proof, and though it is not yet conclusive, I'm hoping Miss du Couteau and Talon will be able to aid us in uncovering the final pieces.  You see, Miss du Couteau's father had done extensive research on the DSS Excursion incident and other events leading up to the Kalamanda scandal until his untimely disappearance.  His notes may be enough to complete my search, and bring those responsible to justice."

Garen nodded, seeming to understand.  In a puzzled tone he asked, "but, then, who fought in the battle of Kalamanda? I spoke with you, joked with you, fought by your side...I saw you and Swain fighting!"

Jarvan was silent for a long time, "It must have been an imposter; there are many in Valoran who posses illusionist powers of that caliber."

"You did seem to act...different, more abrupt and less friendly to me," Garen puzzled a moment longer, "I thought you were just in one of your moods.  I can't believe...of all people I couldn't even tell my own friend was being impersonated."

"The League could have been responsible for that," Katarina said quietly, "they have some of the most talented sorcerers in all Runeterra, impersonating you and starting a war would have been child's play."  

"If so...why didn't they kill Swain?" Jarvan puzzled, "if they posses such a magnitude of power, why not remove him?"

"He's a League champion-" Talon broke in at the same time Katarina burst, "maybe he's working with them!"  

“True, the League wouldn’t kill its own - or at least I would dearly hope not.  And I wouldn’t put it past Swain to engage in their corruption, but we’ll have to see.  We can only accuse those we have solid evidence against,” Jarvan looked at Garen, “will you join us?”

“Of course,” Garen nodded.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will Karthus ever find love? Stay tuned my dudes.


	12. Perquisition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Demacia/Assassin crew continues their investigations...

Chapter 12

Perquisition

Garen, Katarina, Talon, and Jarvan began the arduous task of sifting through the papers in the reconnaissance room over the next two months.  It was tedious, frustrating work as not all the information pertained to their current search; a good deal of the material was left over from the old wars.   But the papers that were relevant made little sense, encrypted or simply nonsensical.  The majority of the papers also were receipts of sort for various items.  The four created a system; Garen and Talon sorted and searched, Katarina decoded messages with her father's rubric, and Jarvan tried to piece together information based on previous knowledge, anything else he could glean from the court.

The research eventually lead to a series of names.  Jarvan intended to use his influence as royalty to anonymously contact and interrogate the persons of interest.  The process would be a long one, seeing as they could not yet make the investigation public, especially with such serious allegations against the League...it would be dangerous to bring their information to light until they were absolutely certain of the culprit.

After a couple months of work, they prepared to call in the first person.

"This Alowicious Chucat sold Arcano-Seismic charges to Bradgel Min less than a week before the Kalamanda mine collapse, which was supposedly caused by Noxus," Jarvan announced.

"Who was supposedly framed by Demacia, as testified by Thom Garvin," Garen added, "but seeing as he's a dead man...he won't be of much use."

Talon looked down, feeling the slightest bit upset with himself for killing off a lead.

"We could interrogate Chucat," Katarina offered.

"Won't work," Jarvan shook his head, "He died in an explosion of his own working shortly after the Ivory Ward attack; an accident, he was always one to take risks when experimenting."

"So we'll just have to search for Bradgel Min directly, see if he's related to the mine collapse," Talon said.

"I will seek him out as soon as possible," Jarvan affirmed.

Unfortunately, despite his resources and influence, Jarvan could not find any record Bradgel Min had ever existed, and upon further searching on the other names noted on the receipts, they did not exist either.

The group gathered once again in the secret chamber to receive the news.

"I have unfortunate news," Jarvan declared slowly, "Bradgel Min, and the other names we've recovered have led to a dead end.  All the people seem to not exist."

"That reeks of conspiracy," Garen gasped, "is there any way to trace where these aliases may have originated?"

"We're working on that," Jarvan nodded.

"We should try to get ahold of the Zaunite traders who sold Bradgel Min the Nyzer poison," Talon suggested, "since they are one party who interacted with the suspects and who are still alive."

"Good idea," Garen nodded, "will you lead this, Talon?  I know negotiations aren't' your forte, but no one will question you in Zaun."

"You must accompany him, Garen," Jarvan interjected.  

Talon looked curiously at the prince; taking Garen into Zaun was an invitation for trouble, but he then realized why: Jarvan did not trust him.  He wanted to make sure Talon's every move was flanked by the knight, so there were no dealings under the table, so Talon didn't "try anything".  

The assassin nodded reluctantly.  

They set out early the next morning, in disguise, riding horseback to Zaun.   It was a good day and a half ride; one that was spent in relative silence.  Talon, being taciturn, and Garen feeling uncomfortable in starting a conversation with the carefully guarded assassin.  He received the distinct vibe Talon did not like him.

A completely apt observation, actually.  Talon did not like the knight, from his shining ideals to his boisterous, jovial manners.  But most of all, Talon hated the way he looked at Katarina.  No matter how much Garen may claim he could not care for any Noxian, it would be an outright lie to say that he did not harbor amorous feelings for the sinister blade.  Safe to say, Talon rather hated him for that.  

When they reached the threshold of Zaun, Talon pulled Garen aside after they tied down the horses.

"As soon as we're in the city, follow me and keep your head down.  These people aren't going to want to be found, so keeping under the radar is the least of our worries."

Garen nodded, tugging at the corner of his cloak as if to better mask his identity.

Casting him a scornful glance, Talon added, "and don't you dare say a thing about justice or those people will tear you apart, got it?"  

The knight nodded again, he also got the feeling Talon would rather enjoy watching such a spectacle.  

Without another word, the duo slipped in through the gates; two worn travellers were not an unusual sight intermixed with the melting pot of people trickling into Zaun.  Garen was repulsed by the state of the city; unchecked safety and health violations ran rampant.  Toxic goo oozed from cracked and poorly patched pipes, dripping into open gutters.  Multicolored smoke spiraled from a factory choked skyline.  The knight nearly gagged on the putrid, chemical saturated air.  Talon, on the other hand, barely noticed the unpleasant smells; a result of years of living in rancid sewers.  

He motioned Garen into a tavern a few blocks into the city.  

"Word travels fast in here, with the mix of people and the alcohol, we can ask around about the traders who sell Nyzer poison," Talon hissed to Garen as they entered.  

Looking around the soiled saloon, Garen was reminded again why he loved his sovereign state of Demacia; for not even the lowliest of Taverns would have been allowed to fall into this level of neglect. His feet squelched through layers of unspecified liquid as he and Talon made their way to the bar.

They took their seat and Talon ordered two pints of rum.  Garen raised a skeptical eyebrow, "drinking on the job?"

"No, but it would look weird if we didn't."

"You're good at what you do," Garen commented.

The corner of Talon's mouth jerked, "this isn't exactly my type of work; I'm usually the one they send to eliminate targets quickly, none of this investigation and interrogation garbage."

The bartender dropped off the rum without so much as casting a glance at them.  

"I see," Garen nodded, taking a sip, finding the watered down beverage vile, and spitting it back into the mug, "who should we start with?"  He cast a glance around the bar.  

"That one," Talon pointed to a large man in fine clothes - dirty like the rest of the bar - but not the clothing of a commoner.  "Get near him and listen."

"Wouldn't it be better to ask him directly?" Garen asked.

"Would draw too much attention to us - not worth the risk."

Garen sighed discontentedly and moved to a table near the richer man.  

Talon took the other end of the tavern, leaning inconspicuously against the wall and catching snippets of conversations. His sharp eyes missed nothing, and soon he caught a quick under-the-table deal, from a man with a carefully groomed goatee and sleazy eyes.  He swept out of the tavern a minute later; the subtle noise of clinking bottles beneath his cloak.  Talon followed him into the adjoining alleyway.  

Halfway down the alley the man stopped, "whatever you want, son, you'd best come out and say it."

"I want to know what you're selling," Talon said bluntly.  

"You buying?"

"That depends."

"If I say no?"

"You won't walk away from this with all your limbs."

"So you're THAT kind of deal maker," he chortled.  

Before Talon could react, he flung a vial into the cobblestones; it exploded into a cloud of green smoke.  Talon distinctly heard the uncapping of a bottle and the sound of gulping through the smoke.  Suddenly, a fist broke through the haze, grabbing Talon by the throat and slamming him into the wall of the adjacent building with more force than he thought humanly possible.  

"Who sent you, punk?  Some scientist inventor who made it big? Well, whoever I stole from had it coming."

Talon wheezed momentarily, "I'm looking for a group of Zaunite traders, specializing in the trade of poisons and other chemicals."

"Well congratulations, you found the boss," he grinned evilly; a bluish green glow radiated from his veins, "my question is this: how do you suppose you'd like to die, little rat?"

Talon struggled against the unrelenting grip in vain, and though he hated to admit it, he desperately needed Garen's help right now.  

Garen had grown quite bored of listening to the boisterous boasting of the rich man.  He laced and unlaced his fingers pensively, waiting for a moment to slip out and rejoin with Talon.  He glanced around the pub and noticed Talon was not present.  Garen slammed his fist against the table, sending a handful of confused looks in his direction.  Anger coursed through him; the assassin had left him in the company of imbeciles and ditched him!  Had this been Talon's plan all along?  Was HE to blame for part of the scandal?  Suddenly, Garen didn't care anymore about being subtle and patient.  He jolted to his feet and yanked the table the rich man sat behind out from under his propped up feet in one swoop.  The knight advanced, lifting the man up by his collar and demanding, "Are you a purveyor of Nyzer Poison?"  He bellowed.  

"No-no!  Are, are you a cop?" He whimpered.

"You wish I were only mere constabulary!  Tell me your trade, and anything you know of the assassin, Talon," Garen added the last part for good measure.

"I-I'm a rum brewer!  I've never dealt with poison in my life- I'm just the tavern's patron!" His eyes flashed wildly, with the panicked look of a fleeing rabbit, "Did you say Talon?  I - I haven't done anything to him!  Please don't tell me he's after me!"  

Garen mulled over the information and dropped the patron in disgust.  His waiting had gained him nothing; this measly man knew nothing.

Just then, Garen heard a distinctive crash from outside.  Full of his usual justice-bringing authority, Garen burst through the side door and into a cloud of green smoke.  

Through the cloud, he distinctly heard the sounds of struggle. A low man's voice laughed mockingly, "so this is the feared Talon, the blade's shadow?  How in Runeterra did you acquire such a moniker?  When I'm finished with you, you'll have a new name: dead guy."

Talon kicked feebly, all the oxygen in his lungs had been strangled out.  He reached under his cloak and pulled out a dagger, raking it across the goatee man's exposed forearm.  He bellowed in pain as blood mixed with glowing potion ran out, but he did not relent.  From the corner of his fading vision, Talon caught the silhouette of a huge man.  

A moment later Garen slammed both his fists into the goatee man's skull.  He collapsed instantly in a heap; completely unconscious.  

Talon gasped and slumped against the wall.  He rubbed his neck as he attempted to catch his breath.  

"I thought you had deserted the mission," Garen admitted uneasily.  

"I saw this one dealing potions; thought he might be our man, didn't have time to alert you."  

"Ah, well then...I suppose we'll have to interrogate him when he wakes," Garen reached out a hand to help Talon up, which he accepted to the knight's astonishment.  

"We should move his body," Talon suggested, "to someplace where he can't call for help."

"Agreed, we'll bind him as well," Garen grabbed the man's ankles and began to drag him.  He glanced over at Talon as if to implore him to pick up the man's other half, but Talon didn't seem to care; in fact he seemed to enjoy watching the man jerk across the cobblestones.

They found an abandoned warehouse that would be perfect for their interrogation.  With some old rusted chains, they bound the man to a metal beam and waited for him to awake.  

The goatee man blinked his eyes open to an unwelcome sight: the muscular guy who had knocked his lights out and the most infamous assassin in Noxus.

He spat off to the side before asking, "whadda ya want?"  

"You're not the one asking the questions here," Talon snarled, still peeved about earlier.

"We are aware you more or less legitimately sell various potions, correct?"

"Yeah.  I have my business, and it's none of yours."  

Talon drew his blade and aimed it at Goatee's chest, "enough sass, we want answers, and although he," Talon motioned to Garen, "might be against brutal methods, I'm not that squeamish."

Goatee gulped, the smirk practically falling off his face.  

"We have on record that you sold several casks of Nyzer poison to Halston Crowley a week or so before the mine collapse in Kalamanda, do you recall who this person was?" Garen asked patiently.

"Ah, no, not really...I never saw his face," Goatee squirmed uncomfortably, "whoever it was paid handsomely for my silence."

"I see..." Garen thought a moment, "do you recall what he was wearing? Any notable mannerisms?"

"Well, ya see he had these robes, real long, real fancy.  Blue, I think, er maybe purple."

"Anything else?" Talon pried.  

"Well, he had this deep voice, like an older guy, and I coulda sworn his eyes sorta glowed.  Anyways, after I made my deal I followed the bloke, y'know, since he was so suspicious, and after a few blocks, I saw him say this incantation and POOF! He was gone.  That was some pretty crazy magic there."  

Garen and Talon exchanged a look: purple robes, secrecy, powerful magic.  It sounded freakishly like a League summoner.

"That's all sir, there's a potion in your back pocket that will melt the chains.  Good day," Garen nodded to him.  

Talon withdrew his blade, feeling like he should make the man endure some sort of additional punishment.  He refrained and followed Garen.  

"Yeah, that's right, keep walkin' ya weirdos!"  Goatee yelled after them.  

Garen and Talon left Zaun as soon as possible afterward, feeling the need to get the information back to Jarvan and Katarina.  

They found the prince and Katarina dutifully searching through the reconnaissance room.  

Garen was the first to speak, "Sir, we found out who may have been making under the table deals."

"Who?"

"A summoner by the name of Halston Crowley."

Jarvan slumped down, "so it is the League after all. With their resources, it makes sense that they could pull off such an elaborate scheme."  He stared at the pile of papers he held for a long time, "I shall go to the Institute of War and implore of this Halston Crowley, see if I can speak with him."

The other three nodded in acquiescence.  

* * *

 

It was Erida Maude who greeted Jarvan at the front desk genially.  

"May I speak with Summoner Halston Crowley?"  he asked.

"I must inquire of your reasons," Erida replied patiently.

"He, ah, he summoned me last week; I rather enjoyed his play style.  I wanted to compliment him and tell him he can summon me any time."

"Alright then, let me check the archives for his residence," Erida thumbed through a massive directory.   Several minutes later she looked up again and said uncertainly, "there is no Halston Crowley in our records."

"Are you certain?!" Jarvan asked too quickly.  He recovered his composure instantly, "I must have been mistaken, my apologies for taking up your time."

"Oh, it was no trouble." Erida said oddly.

Jarvan turned around and marched out of the Institute; he needed to get to the bottom of this.  The League must answer to their crimes.  

* * *

 

The four had nearly finished their research.  Almost five months after Jarvan had tried to sneak into the du Couteau household, the conclusion was finally set: it was indeed the League at fault for everything in Kalamanda; an elaborate scheme to acquire the Nexuses.  And now, the whole world needed to know.  Jarvan planned to make the speech the next morning, and about midway through, he would call Katarina forth to testify on behalf of Noxus; so that no one could, in any way, claim the accusations were yet another scam.   

* * *

 

It was the middle of the night when Garen jerked awake to the sound of scrabbling at a window near to him. The knight leaped into action, bursting into the halls as if expecting a full-blown ambush. Instead he found Talon across the way; his door open.  The sound had been him fumbling with the window.  

"Excuse me, Talon, where are you headed?"

The assassin jumped and sent a flighty look in Garen's direction.

"I'm leaving."

"Why? The investigation has reached its end, we've all but won."

"That's not it.  I took part in the investigation because I thought I might be able to unearth the whereabouts of General du Couteau.  I've torn the reconnaissance room apart; he didn't leave a single indication of where he had gone," Talon shook his head.

"I admire your perseverance." Garen nodded to him.  

Talon replied with a curt nod, "I'm certain our paths will cross again."

Neither mentioned that their next meeting may not be on peaceful grounds.  

Garen watched the assassin go. He recognized the intensity of Talon's expression from somewhere, the glint he got in his eyes whenever he was on the trail of something...he just couldn't place where this recognition came from.  

The knight crossed the hallway back to his chamber, nearly colliding with Quinn in the process.

The scout jumped out of the way, casting Garen a bemused look.

"Quinn!  What are you doing wandering around the castle at this hour?" Garen asked.

"I needed to double check my surveillance post for tomorrow's gathering," she replied simply.

"Ah, well, you're taking the west flank, if I recall correctly."  

"Thank you, I'll be getting some sleep now," she punched Garen lightly in the shoulder, "you should too."  

Garen watched her disappear down the hall.  

It was her.  

The look in Talon's eyes.

Had mirrored hers.  

* * *

 

The next morning, the citizens of Demacia were called together into the castle's courtyard, all curious to know what their prince had to say, and why he had been holed up for the past five months.   Jarvan stood proud on the dais, in full military dress; He took to the stand, gazing over the multitudes of curious faces staring up at him like a thousand petals.  

"My dear citizens of Demacia, I regret to inform you all that the recent turmoil is the fault, not of our nemesis, Noxus, but of the supposedly honorable League."

As expected, outrage exploded in the courtyard, all the people crying at once for answers.  

Jarvan waited until they calmed down a notch, "the League has betrayed our trust; by endangering our miners, attempting to frame us, and above all, starting war for the sake of fulfilling their greedy desires."  

He continued to speak, listing off the grievances, the falsified names, and other deceptions.  

Garen waited in the wings for the moment he would usher Katarina out.  The knight could not get her out of his mind, though he had desperately tried to convince himself she was nothing but bad news, working alongside the assassin for the past months had only served to strengthen his forbidden feelings.   She had proven to be smart, witty, and passionate - a depth of traits he would not have imagined her to have.  And on top of that, she was beautiful, and a worthy opponent.  His match.   Garen pushed his thoughts aside and waited for his cue.  A minute or two later, Jarvan called Katarina to his side.  

A gasp rose up collectively from the crowd, followed by screams of fright.  Instantly, the Dauntless Vanguard leapt into action, converging on the assassin before she could kill Jarvan.  Garen watched his men in disbelief as they charged the Noxian.  

Katarina reacted swiftly, drawing her blades, which only availed to making the Vanguard charge faster.  Garen didn't think twice.  He dove at Katarina, shielding her with his body and blocking the Vanguard soldier's incoming attack.  The aftermath erupted into confusion: in full view of Demacian citizens, Garen had just protected a Noxian assassin, who had appeared to be assaulting their prince.  

"Stand down, soldier," Garen ordered his man.  

The vanguard paused, and for a moment it looked like he would not obey.  He searched Garen's unrelenting expression, hoping for a sign that the knight had not lost his mind.  Finding none, he lowered his weapon.  

"All will be explained," Garen said calmly to him. He looked over at Jarvan, still standing frozen in surprise.  

The prince nodded and motioned Katarina over by him.  

She shot a glance at Garen, halfway between irritation and gratitude.  

Jarvan began to explain everything: the investigations, the coded rubric from the Ivory Ward, the secret meeting room, the previous investigations done by Marcus du Couteau, and the temporary alliance with Katarina and Talon.   

Finally, the citizen calmed down; it was clear they liked the idea of allying with Noxians no more than Jarvan and Garen initially had, but like the prince and knight, if it meant justice, so be it.  

Katarina took the stand and began to speak, though it was apparent the crowd disliked her presence, “General du Couteau had been monitoring a series of transactions related to the DSS excursion.  My father believed that Noxus was being set up for political disaster, so he took it upon himself to discover the truth behind the attack on Demacia. The transactions and orders were placed by a list of names that, according to my father’s notes, lead nowhere. These people simply do not exist,” stated Katarina. “But he had tied their point of origin to the Institute of War.”

Jarvan broke in and continued to explain the orders placed with Alowicious Chucat and the Zaunite traders, and their correlation with the horrific events in Kalamanda.  “If this evidence stands,” Jarvan stated, “then someone at the Institute manipulated the situation between Demacia and Noxus, pitting us against each other in Kalamanda. That is why we must stand together until the League itself answers for this injustice.”

The citizens in the courtyard nodded in agreement.

"I am placing Miss du Couteau under my protection; any act against her is an act of treason against the crown.  The same goes for the assassin Talon," Jarvan added, though it was clear he had disappeared.  

At this decree however, the relative calm over the courtyard erupted once again into chaos.  

Jarvan held up a hand to silence them and shouted over the din, "this is all, I will have no questions."

With that, he turned and motioned for Garen and Katarina to follow.  

* * *

 

"Well that couldn't have gone any worse," Jarvan raged, slamming his helmet onto his desk and scattering all the carefully stacked papers.

"Much the contrary, sir," Garen disagreed, "the people of Demacia have been alerted of the League's treachery."

"Yet they distrust me now because I have allied with Noxians," the prince roared, "and then the Dauntless Vanguard nearly killed Katarina!?  Why does the League even need to try to incite war? We could have done a fine job ourselves today!"  He slashed his arm in Katarina's direction.  

"Calm yourself, my friend," Garen put a hand on Jarvan's shoulder, "everything will work out in the end."

Jarvan didn't look convinced, but nodded in agreement all the same, "Very well.  Leave me, both of you.  I need to sort things out."

Garen dipped his head and opened up the door, ushering Katarina out first.  

She was about to disappear into her chamber, but Garen stopped her, he couldn't help himself.

"Are you alright?" He blurted stupidly.

She looked annoyed, "what do you mean?"

"You were just attacked!"

"I've been in and out of worse situations; and I'm in enemy territory.  Being attacked doesn't exactly come as a surprise," she shrugged.

"Oh, well, I see," Garen said, feeling embarrassed.

"I was surprised..." Katarina started, but halted an instant later.

"What?"

"I didn't think you'd come between your own man and me," she admitted.   "I guess I should...thank you for that.  So...thanks.  I let my guard down; the attack came as a surprise." She avoided Garen's gaze.

The knight shifted uncomfortably on his feet, muttered a hasty "goodnight", and left.  Garen strode through the back entrance of the castle, oblivious to his surroundings.  Thoughts from his conversation with Katarina swirled in his mind.  For a moment, she'd been a human being, completely and wholly.  A layer of her hard, external shell had slipped, and Garen had glimpsed the girl underneath.   

Katarina leaned against the wall of her room and looked out at the gleaming spires and pearly domes of the Demacian skyline.  She would never get used to the clean, shimmering city; beautiful as it was deceptive.  Her time in Demacia had only gone to strengthen that belief.  Noxus and Demacia were not all that different in some ways.  Their punishments were swift and unrelenting; Demacians called it justice; Noxians glorified it.  Noxians were bound by a code of unspoken competition, living in a cutthroat society of ambition in which anyone could achieve greatness.  Demacians were bound by a code of honor and acceptance of their class, living in a society broken into castes, ambitions based upon preordained purpose.  

And then there was Garen.

Katarina rubbed her temples.  She had once found him oafish, foolish, and naive.  She had been wrong; he was those things, but he was brave and unshaken in his loyalties...loyalties that had led him to protect her in the face of his own soldiers.  The assassin tried to push these conflicting feelings out of herself, but they remained inextricably bound.  Talon had disappeared.  Cassiopeia was inconsolable.  Katarina was running out of family.  Yet somehow, as her world crumbled around her, she had found comradeship in the most unlikely of places.  In Demacians.  In Garen.  

* * *

 

  
Swain put down the newspaper disgustedly.  Katarina was working with Jarvan.  The little traitor.  

"Should I execute her?" He asked aloud.

"I don’t' think that would be wise, sir," Darius replied, coming into view, "she's a part of a prestigious family, a vestige of the aristocracy of old."

"True, yes, I suppose.  I had been waiting to see if she would come up with some evidence of General du Couteau,"

"Like a corpse?" Darius asked snidely.

"Hmmm, yes.  Though seeing as she hasn't I think we can cut this third party out of the contest for Grand General."

"I agree, and sir, do you think we have enough support to make our move?"

"Let us see," Swain turned to an ornate chessboard, inlaid with mother of pearl and obsidian.  He took the black king piece and knocked over the white king piece, "Darkwill's gone," he removed one of the knights, "du Couteau has been taken care of,  only Kieran," he gestured to the other knight, "stands in my way."

"And he will soon fall asunder," Darius said, venom in his voice.  

"My knight still stands strong...as does my queen," Swain set down the king piece and picked up the queen, running a calloused thumb over the polished stone, "correct, LeBlanc?"

Darius looked aghast for a moment, then completely irritated, "How..."

"If you're going to masquerade as Darius, try not to be so eloquent, and don't show how much you'd love to rip apart your enemies in the tone of your voice."  

"Only you would notice that," she observed with a sad smile; the illusion gone.      

"I would.  The time has come milady, the question is, are we ready?"

"More than ever," LeBlanc said, "victory never tastes so sweet as when you've had to claw and connive for every bit of it." With a wicked gleam in her eyes, she flicked over the white queen piece and the knight.  LeBlanc rose quickly, "I must be going."

"What sort of engagement is so important that you cannot stay for dinner?" Swain queried.

"Tea with Elise and Lissandra,"

"You stay in the company of those two?"

"We mistresses of deception must stick together." she curtsied sardonically.

"Of course," Swain watched her go.  

Beatrice turned around on her stand, feathers fluffed in annoyance.

"You still don't like it when I invite Evaine for dinner?"

Beatrice crowed moodily.  

"Silly bird," Swain chastised.  

He picked up the paper again, noting a quote from Darius in one article.  The tactician read aloud, "Strength was once the very backbone of Noxus.  Yet we have become plagued by weakness. In Jericho Swain I see a man with the power to cull the weak from Noxus and unite us under one banner—and united we shall conquer once again."

Swain sighed, "Oh Darius, if only it could be that simple.  Becoming a military weapon again is not the answer; it never was.  I just hope in time you and the rest of Noxus will be able to accept that."  

Swain folded up the newspaper and tossed it aside, leaning back into his chair.  His moment of triumph was near; he could feel it.  Nearly fifty years after his worst failure, his fall from grace, his rise in the military, he would finally be able to set matters right.  

This time, he would keep his promise.  The tactician was going to make sure of it.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I remember teasing both Garen/Kat and Talon/Kat because back in the stone ages that was a hotly debated love triangle >_>


	13. Tyrant!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wonder who's about to become a tyrant...

Chapter 13: Tyrant!

                The beast has awoken.  

Generals filed into the grand hall like ants tracing a familiar path home.  They took their respective places silently; as though they could all smell the distinctive aura of anticipation in the air.

Kieran was a bit late to arrive.  His short-fused patient had long since reached an end.  He had been polishing his favorite broadsword, thinking that whether Swain accepted his challenge or not, a new Grand General would be taking the throne before nightfall.  

The tactician too was slightly behind schedule.  He pulled on his every-day robes and took out one of his nicer canes.  For Swain, it was just an ordinary day.  

He then took a detour to the aviary, where he called together his birds.  "Come now, all of you need to come with me."  The birds swirled around Swain instantly, until one by one they soared into him; fusing once more with his soul.   

"Even you, Beatrice, I need all the strength I can get today."

She didn't look happy about it, but Swain's favorite pet obeyed.  The tactician lingered a moment longer in the aviary.  Though all of his familiars were within him, looking at the empty, barren branches, Swain felt completely alone.  

He joined up with Darius just outside the great hall.  

"Sir?" Darius ushered him in.

"Yes Darius, I know.  It's time," Swain intoned without looking at the general.  

They entered the onyx hall together, and Swain took in every detail; his supporters, the ones who sneered in his presence, the uncertain generals with darting gazes, and the insolent fop who sat reclined in his chair, idly polishing the hilt of his sword with his fingertips.  

Chancellor Malek Hawkmoon rose uncertainly, glancing from Keiran to Swain and back again, waiting to see if either would be making a move right from the get go.  But as neither seemed inclined to do so, the Chancellor began to go over the meeting agenda in a shaky voice.

Swain kept Kieran trained in his peripheral vision, waiting for the arrogant boy to strike.  He could almost see one of Zilean's ticking time bombs above his head.  

Tick

Hawkmoon continued to drone, "our economic state has slightly improved since the Kalamanda excursion..."

Tock

"The Ivory Ward is back in running order, all the shop owners have been accounted for and reimbursed..."

Tick

"A recent report from the Journal of Justice has unveiled conspiracy..."

Tock

Kieran sat up straight, the hilt of his sword clinking.

Tick

"As of yet, we have no definitive contestant for the Grand General..." Hawkmoon trailed off weakly.

Tock

Kieran exploded, jumping up on the table, sword drawn, "This standstill is ridiculous.  Waiting around is a coward's game," he jabbed the blade in Swain's direction, "I challenge you to a duel for the seat of Grand General.  Fight me.  If you're man enough for it."

The foolish youth stomped off the table, landing lightly on the floor.  A few stride from the door he turned, "I'll be in the Fleshing arena in a half hour.  Be there, _Swine_." The door slammed in his wake.

In slow motion all the other general's heads swiveled to see Swain's reaction.  The tactician's gaze had not wavered from the direction of Kieran’s absconsion; in fact he had not moved at all in the frame of the entire outburst.  But underneath his face mask, the corner of his mouth jerked into a smirk.  

A dozen or so guards escorted Swain to the Fleshing arena.  He walked proudly, with an air of calm serenity that nearly gave the impression he was merely out on a stroll.  He reached the mouth of the arena and proceeded down the maw of the gladiator's entrance.  A singular guard followed him; though it was not customary, apparently his followers felt the need for extra protection.

Swain followed the weak bands of light that began to stream from the grated doorway to the area.  In the crisscrossing beams, he halted and waited for the door to swing open.   His hands jittered in anticipation atop his cane.  He tried to hide the uncharacteristic behavior from his guard; the shaking came not from fear, but the promise of fulfillment.

"You don't have to do this," a woman's voice said quietly.  

"I wondered if it may be you following me," Swain turned weary eyes to the guard as she unmasked.

"Yet you still allowed it," LeBlanc said bluntly.

"Perhaps even I need the comfort of a familiar face in my moment of reckoning."

"You speak this way...it's as if you've gone soft," LeBlanc sighed.

"Quite the contrary, though I wouldn't expect you to understand yet."

"You worry me, I hope you know that."

"And I have never been more honored than to be a reoccurring thought in your mind."

"Flattery, as always, gets you nowhere," her pretension slipped a moment after the words had left her mouth, "why are you doing this?"

"I need to defeat Kieran, once and for all, in front of my people."

"No you...you could send Darius, someone, anyone but you, please," she implored.

"Evaine, do you doubt me?"

"No...it's just...if you're killed...what am I supposed to do without you?" she reached out and clasped his hands in hers.  

"Is this sentiment, my dearest deceiver?  I thought you were incapable of such sincerity,"

She looked down and away.  Her placid expression was mask like and wholly unchanged...except for her eyes.  A glazed look had overtaken them, as though frozen emotions threatened to melt free.

"Evaine, you know why I must make a show of killing Kieran, why I always had to."

LeBlanc nodded, still not looking at him.

"Nothing in Noxus is won without blood; my victory will be no different."

"I know," she looked up again, eyes burning, "but if he tries anything, I will intervene."  

"You will not.  This fight needs to be won cleanly, fairly.  My supporters must be reassured that they made the correct decision in trusting me; for all others, I must erase all doubt and prove that I am worthy of Grand General," Swain squeezed her hands gently, "trust me."

LeBlanc met his gaze and nodded.  She bit her lower lip uncertainly and began to say something.

Swain never heard it, for the next moment the door swung open, bathing the entry in fading sunlight.  

Swain and Kerian circled around one another on either side of the arena.   The setting sun cut rays of deep orange-red light across the Fleshing.  

As expected, Kieran charged first.  

The tactician took a tentative step back, he knew very well that a single blow from Kieran's long sword would more than likely be the end of him.  Dually so if he didn't plan to use his "other form", which he didn't .  As the boy neared, Swain grew perfectly still, hands folded like a monk inside his robes, until the last moment, when he could clearly see his reflection in the polished blade, Swain whipped out a fistful of tormenting fire, igniting Kieran.  

The youngest Darkwill staggered, keeling over as the agonizing burn slowly engulfed his body, intensifying as it went.  Then it was gone; he stood up again, singed and angry.  

Making him angry, admittedly, was a bad move.  

Kieran charged forward, slashing madly with his blade; Swain could barely dodge, let alone unleash a spell.  The tactician had used up his one trick; even with it, the most he could do was slow the boy. He dodged backwards, matching Kieran step by step.

"Are you going to fight or run, old man?" he snarled, "why bother running? Why not just let me kill you and get it over it instead of making a total ass of yourself running like a coward."

Swain said nothing; bantering with this oaf would be like trying to have an intelligent conversation with carrion.

He back stepped, side stepped, ducked and dodged until he could feel the cool cement of the area wall at his back.  

Kieran sized him up, sword raised for the final blow.  

Swain's eyes never wavered, instead he looked upon Kieran with contempt, "watch closely," he whispered.

Kieran trained his eyes on Swain's chest, the exact spot where he would drive his blade home...

Swain watched the blade surge towards its target, and his nerve momentarily slipped.  

But when Kieran's blade thrust forward, with a clang, it met only the wall of the arena.  He paused in confusion, unable to process what had happened; why he had not skewered Swain, why he was not being crowned victor.  Then he sensed a presence behind him.  

Just like his father, Kieran did not have time to react.

Swain reappeared a moment later behind Kieran, wasting no time in bashing the boy upside the head with his cane.  Kieran staggered, still bewildered as Swain grasped his shoulders and flung him to the ground.  Runes swirled beneath his body, replaced an instant later with curving talons that pierced ruthlessly into his flesh.  Kieran howled in frustration and agony.  Swain looked down at him with contempt and the whole area held its breath to see Swain's next move.  

The tactician found where Darius stood at the rim of the arena instantly.  

Without hesitating, he proclaimed, "Darius, dispatch this worm.”  

As bidden, the general strode into the area to where Kieran lay helpless, and without a word, lopped off his head.

For minutes the whole arena sat silently.  So many had been expecting an entirely different scene, so many had doubted the tactician.  Even Swain had doubted.  

But the results were undeniable; and the Noxian machine moved forwards to make accommodations for the man who would presumably become their next Grand General.

Swain was escorted off to a side room of the grand castle.  There he waited for the rest of the High Command to gather for the final decision.  Darius and a handful of guards waited with him.

"All of you should leave," Darius ordered them, "no one will attack Swain after seeing what they just witnessed."

A guard lingered, edging slowly towards the door even after the others had all marched out.

Swain voiced, "you there, if you would please go to my estate, in the bottom drawer of the dresser directly across from my bed, there is a box that contains some ornamental robes I had made for myself a long time ago.  For...special occasions."

The guard nodded curtly and stalked out of the chamber.  

"How are you feeling sir?" Darius asked, silently assessing Swain with eyes that held an unusual amount of concern.

"Fine, fine, really.  Better, actually, than I have in many years," Swain rested wearily against the back of the padded chair that had been offered to him.  

In truth, he ached everywhere.  Avoiding Kieran's blade had taken everything he had, and Swain was certainly unaccustomed to contorting his body in order to dodge.  And the final spell...why he hadn't attempted something like that in ages.  

"What you did out there sir...was incredible," Darius said finally, "I have no doubt all of Noxus will follow you after that show of strength."

"I agree heartily," Swain permitted a smirk to work its way onto his exhausted face,"in all honesty, though, I had expected better.  Even that mewling quim in Demacia is a worthier opponent than that fool."

Darius nodded in agreement.  

Just then, the guard reappeared carrying a heavy box with a bird-headed staff balanced atop it.  

"Sir, where would you like these?" the guard asked.

"Come with me, I should get cleaned up before my coronation."  Swain lead the way out of the waiting room into a nearby restroom facility.  

He pulled down his face mask and splashed water that trickled down from a natural spring in the corner onto his face.  In the mirror above the spring he saw the image of a man who had done everything and would do everything in his power to achieve his goal.  For his entire life, he had strove for greatness, exhausted every means, and done the unthinkable in the name of success.  His face reflected the eternal, seemingly impossible, struggle.  Inhuman demonic eyes burned in his sockets, cheeks hollow and pallid with the years, his jaw crisscrossed with innumerable scars from a multitude of adversaries - a good majority coming from the receiving end of Jarvan's lance.  Had he been a fool, Swain would have barely recognized himself.  But he understood that his appearance was merely a manifestation of his aspirations, for better or worse.  

"Are you going to change, or stare at yourself?" the guard asked.

"That is the first and only thing you have to say to me, milady?" Swain asked with a degree of incredulity.  

LeBlanc thought a moment, "yes.  It is."

"You speak as though you never had a doubt in your mind otherwise, though I know that to be false."

"You haven't always been the most apt at keeping your word, my dear, I speak only from unfortunate experience."

"And I have spent the last fifty years of my existence foolishly attempting to atone my transgressions. Has it all been in vain in your eyes, milady?"  Swain asked sadly.  

"It has not been for naught, I can see that now."  She stepped beside Swain, looking over his haggard visage.  Somehow, no matter how much he changed, she could always glimpse the face of the man she had once loved, years ago.  "I only fear what you may have lost for all you have gained."

"There are few things in this world I truly care to gain," Swain said simply.

"And what of those you have lost in that process?"

"They are of no concern to me."

"Then you are absolutely the embodiment of the ends justifying the means." LeBlanc shook her head.

"Would you have me any other way?"

"No.  You would not be the man you are if you weren't willing to make sacrifices.  Only truly great men are like that.  Now, get dressed, the whole Command is probably waiting for you."

Swain took the box from her, catching her eyes with a knowing look.  A look that nearly resembled contentment.

* * *

 

Katarina returned to Noxus at nightfall.  She was surprised to find that no attendants waited to greet her when she arrived.  Instead she had to direct the carriage driver to her estate where she de-boarded in absolute silence. As Katarina entered the house, the feeling of emptiness inside of her amplified.  A huge hollow house, and no one to fill the void.  Not in the manor; not in her.  She dragged her belongings up to her chambers; there wasn't a servant in sight.  Either they were all asleep or they had quit in her absence.  

"I didn't expect you back so soon," a voice muttered from the shadows.

Katarina whirled, swearing monstrously, and groping for a dagger.

Talon stepped out of the shadows, arms crossed, expression decidedly displeased.  

"What do you mean?"

"I figured you would be hanging around your Demacian pals for a while longer." the blade's shadow snorted contemptuously.

Anger flared inside Katarina, "Are you kidding me? I would never desert Noxus."

"Unless it meant finding your father," Talon added sardonically.

"Go away. I'm not interested in hearing your opinion."

Talon turned to leave, disinterestedly, "you always cared to hear that _Demacian’s_ opinion."

Katarina stared after him, completely confused.  

With a growl, she followed after him, "Talon, what are you talking about?  Where is everyone?"

She nearly ran into Talon at the door.  He paused, listening intently to the stagnant evening.  

"Do you hear that?" he asked softly.

"What?"

"Something is happening at the Fleshing arena."  

"At this time of night? Why would they be having gladiator games now?" Katarina muttered irritably.  

"Should we check it out?"

She answered by striding down the walkway to the front gate.  Whatever it was, it couldn't be good.  

The two assassins soon realized the reason for the lack of life in Noxus; nearly everyone had flocked to the arena.  

They found the nearest guard, one who had been sent out on an errand, and demanded explanation.

"What's going on?" She asked with all her usual finesse.  

The guard looked miffed, "Kieran Darkwill and General Swain dueled for the seat of Grand General.  Swain won."

Katarina and Talon exchanged looks of dismay, "what's going on now?"

"The high command is regrouping to coronate Swain.”

“We’ll be there,” Katarina said icily, watching the guard go.  

* * *

 

Swain mounted the podium in the great hall, taking a moment to let reality sink in.  He was not one to fantasize, but oh how this moment felt like a fantasy, and for all Swain's inner stolidity and pragmatism, he could not help but let the moment sink in to one of nostalgia.  The last time he had stood in this place of the Grand Hall, he had been masquerading in the royal court.  

Below him, the generals had assembled.  With grave, but relieved, glances, they rose as one and announced that they had no objections to Swain's rule.  

The tactician stood straighter, glancing at Darius beside him.  In his extravagant robes, he felt out of place, a decorated doll rather than a ruler.  The helmet obscured any recognizable feature about him.  But his personal identity was irrelevant for Noxus at the moment; they needed a figure to rally to, to idolize.  This figure, this image of Swain was all they needed to see until he had firmly established his rule.  Then and only then could he unveil his true motives, his true self.  

The High Command clustered at the base of the podium, waiting for the first commands of the tyrant.  In the back, Swain glanced up in time to see the shapes of Talon and Katarina slip in.  Just in time to see his coronation, he thought sardonically.

Looking over the people - his people - Swain began to speak: the speech the command needed, reassurance.  

His voice rang out powerfully, reverberating through the arching hall, “I speak to you, for the first time, as Grand General in a solemn hour for the life of Noxus, of our livelihood, and of the pursuit of greatness.  A tremendous battle is raging in Valoran, not one of hextech gun-blades and swords, but one of words and treachery; deception and conspiracy.  They have broken through to the singular institution sworn against all heinous transgressions: The League of Legends.  They have penetrated deeply and spread slander and lies in their track; deceit used to satisfy their greed in Kalamanda; calumny to accuse me of willingly taking part in their schemes.  Nothing has been done to halt their descent into corruption, into the corruption of the minds of the loyal peoples of Valoran, until now.  

We must not let ourselves be intimidated or swayed by the presence of such tyranny in our midst. As your ruler, your tyrant, I have taken oath to protect Noxus at all costs.  We will survive this time of turmoil; we are Noxians, forever strong.  We will endure.  

A new era is at hand, an era where the need to call to arms has been abashed by the iron fisted League, and where favor is only won through sycophantic and submissive behavior.  Noxus will not wilt in the face of such adversary, we will find new strength: strength within ourselves, strength politically; power in words and tactics that transcend the might of the blade.  

Our task is not to win this battle - but to win the war.  It is the ultimatum of our existence, to outlive the passing outrage of the League, their baseless vindication.  We shall not hesitate to take every step, even the most drastic, to call forth from our people the last ounce and the last inch of effort of which they are capable. Noxus will thrive; it will bloom again in majesty, a force unlike that which has ever been seen in Valoran.  Whatever happens we will fight to the end, be it bitter or be it glorious. Nay, if we fight to the end, it can only be glorious.

The Era of the Raven has begun.”  

The words were partially what Swain knew the generals wanted to hear, but also a precursor to the future Swain intended to build.  The blocks were all in place, Swain was now the chief builder; he need only say the world and all of Noxus would lay down their lives to achieve his future.  

* * *

 

  


Vessaria was up to her neck with problems.  It was bad enough she had to deal with cleaning up the Relivash Scandal, but on top of it she couldn't turn a corner without being harangued by some minor summoner who either had some sort of complaint or congratulation to give the councilwoman.  She finally wrestled off the last of the obnoxious stragglers and stepped in to her office, making sure to lock the door tightly behind her.   Heywan Relivash and Ralston Farnsley had been arrested earlier that morning; now she had to do the arduous task of sifting through League records to unearth other accomplices.  The Institute had taken on a "witch hunt" atmosphere - not that pointing fingers made Vessaria's job of sifting out suspects any easier.  Later that day she needed to make a public appearance as well; the people of Valoran needed to hear her empty words of reassurance.  If baseless words were all it took to stave off war and chaos, Vessaria would take it; even though she was in no mood to be the League's public face.  

After scrutinizing week’s worth of records of messages coming in and out of the Institute, Vessaria threw down the packet in disgust.  The other council members were working at this too, when they weren't putting out fires and dealing with the press.  It just didn't seem like enough.  Darkness had rooted itself deeply in the one place where it should never; now the external damage had been removed, but the heart of the weed still clung fast.  

The council woman walked over to her mailbox and pulled out her daily paper.  She settled down at the table in the center of her spacious office, adjusting the tablecloth that now had to cover the mahogany surface; a result of her rageful scorch marks that, despite her best efforts, could not be removed by any reasonable means.  

The front story of the Journal of Justice nearly made her set the whole table alight again.

"Swain Seizes Power in Noxus"

She cursed and threw the paper aside; on top of everything, scandal, conspiracy, chaos, now _this_ , now _he_ was in power.  

Just as he had vowed.  

Vessaria had always harbored a wicked satisfaction, deep in her soul, that no matter what Swain did, she had the distinct feeling he would never accomplish the lofty goals he had set.  So when he went and succeeded, safe to say, Vessaria did not take it well.   

She remembered a time when she would have lauded Swain for his triumph, been right by his side the whole time.  The weight of the years seemed to press on Vessaria as she reminisced.  It had been so long ago, when she was no more than a child; or so it felt.  

She and Swain had both been recruits of the Black Rose; aspiring to rise in their ranks, youthful and idealistic.  They had found common ambition in each other, lust for power and the drive to attain it.  

And yes, she had loved him.  

_Stupid, childish infatuation,_ Vessaria chided herself repeatedly, _worse, that the feeling had been mutual._  

But then there came a point when she could not stand the Black Rose any more; a foolish, prideful part of her wanted to believe she was above their deceit.  

                She did not like how the Black Rose could see through her, into her black, base,  heart.  Vessaria needed to be in a place where she could pretend herself virtuous and clean; keep her tainted soul underwraps.  It was fooling herself, she knew.  But in the Black Rose, Vessaria’s pretentions had been stripped, and she had gotten a glimpse of her inner self...and it was not anything worth lauding.  

                So she left.  Swain was the last person to see her; he had not breathed a word of her deserting.  He had been so noble, risking terrible things by covering for her.  She hated him for that; for being so strong, so altruistic when she knew well that in her selfish, cold being she would have never had the strength to do the same for him.  

* * *

 

                “We can’t let him get away with this,” Katarina spat, not caring who or what heard her.  She sat curled up in the wide stone frame of her window, overlooking the gardens.  

                Talon heard her caustic remark and hung like a shadow in her doorway. “You know I don’t disagree,” he snorted.  

                “What can we do now?” the assassin muttered angrily, “he’s the tyrant, he has all the cards, the power, the influence...except...maybe...” Katarina stared intently at the swaying treetops, chewing her lip pensively.  “It all seems...too easy, doesn’t it?”

                “Meaning?”

                “It’s _Swain_ we’re talking about, it’s not like he could gain all this influence and power easily.  No one can.  Especially not _him_.”

                “So?”

                “He had to have had help, right?”

                Talon nodded.

                “Think about it...when did the cards start to change in Swain’s favor?  During the boom in _Kalamanda!_  And who was behind the Kalamanda Scandal?”

                “Relivash and Farnsley,” Talon said.

                “ _And Swain_ ,” Katarina said, eyes ablaze with triumph, “He had to be involved!  If we can reveal his treachery...”

                “He’ll fall from power in a heartbeat,” Talon whispered, a grimly satisfied smile manifesting upon his visage.  

“He gave Kalamanda to the League in exchange for power in Noxus.” Katarina muttered.   “A bold move. A strong move. The strong may rise to power here, but this wouldn’t be Noxus if there weren’t always others with the strength to challenge them.”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the point I had to slow down and actually figure out the rest of the plot because after this chapter I was out of the Journal of Justice to piece together info from.

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes I look back and go "wow, how did I have...the energy to write all of Swain's longwinded speeches and all their pretentious banter" and I just...I was so in love with their love...........hEcK :')


End file.
